Sleeping With Hermione
by shiny silver grl
Summary: Not what you're thinking ; After Harry goes missing during an intense mission, Hermione and Ron return to the Order. In their friend's absence they begin to realize just what they mean to each other. COMPLETE.
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** "Sleeping With Hermione"

**Author:** silver

**Written:** June 3rd 2004 – November 30th, 2004

**Disclaimer:** This fic was written purely in my spare time ( ha! Spare time? I guess that's why it took me five months… ), for no profit. I own nothing in regards to the Harry Potter genre. I just keep churning out the ideas that pester me until they get written.

**Rating:** PG-13, for slightly adult themes, and a sprinkling of language.

**VV**

England was at war.

There were no bombs. There were no raids. There were no fighter planes shrieking through the sky overhead. No troops stormed her shores at dawn and no gunfire shattered the night, but England was at war.

A casual observer would see nothing out of the ordinary. London still bustled with activity, teeming with people who were not cowering in fear, or standing to fight their oppressors. Red, double-decker buses still circled on their endless routes, filled to bursting with camera-toting tourists. Politicians still sat at long tables in high rooms to discuss affairs of state. People got up and went to work, fighting the snarls in traffic just like they always did. A casual observer would see only that life - as always - went on.

But only if that observer were a muggle.

Because of course the muggles had no idea there was a war going on. They couldn't see it. They couldn't smell it. It wasn't advertised in screaming headlines, or broadcast twenty-four hours a day on the television or radio. With only a few exceptions, the muggles saw what they always saw.

Which was to say, they saw nothing.

But there was, and always had been, another world beneath the surface. An older world, one in which good and evil took more substantial forms. Battles raged between them, fought by witches and wizards of all levels. Though only those with the highest clearance were in the business of directing the forces, everyone had chosen a side. All were called upon to fight.

Humans and magical creatures centuries old had answered the call, having long anticipated such a war, and they fought side by side with those the outside world would have called children.

But there were no children here, Ron thought.

He had difficulty, sometimes, remembering what it had been like to be a child…happy and carefree. The days when he had nothing more to worry about than filling up all of the space on the two-foot roll of parchment for his Potions homework felt too far removed from his current reality to be true. When actually, it had been mere months since the last time he'd withered under Professor Snape's hostile glare in class. Less than a year since the last time he'd deflected a quaffle from the Gryffindor hoops during a game of Quidditch.

Ron shook his head imperceptibly. His eyes were focused on the signal light across the street as he waited to cross, but his mind was lost in the past.

He knew an argument could be made that they'd never really had the opportunity to be _just_ children…him, Harry and Hermione. It sometimes seemed that from the moment they met, they'd been drawn into one dangerous adventure after another. Harry especially. But even then, it hadn't been _all_ the bloody time. There'd been breaks from it. There'd been days – weeks at a time, even – when they'd been just as bored as everyone else. Just as happy as everyone else. Just as excited to make the trip into Hogsmeade; just as nervous about their test scores. There had been moments of joy, and moments when Ron was sitting in the common room with his friends, content just to be with them and secure in the knowledge that they were all safe.

He brought one such moment to the surface of his mind, remembering the warmth radiating from the fireplace as he sat playing Wizard's Chess with Harry. As always, Hermione occupied one end of the sofa facing them, her legs tucked beneath her. One hand languorously stroked the spine of the orange cat curled up in her lap, while the other balanced the abnormally large book she read on the arm of the couch. In between moves Ron watched her, noting the play of flickering light and shadow across her face. He liked the way the glow from the fire glinted on the highlights in her hair and made her eyes sparkle. He watched her while he waited for Harry to try (and fail) to come up with a suitable defense against Ron's attack, taking in every detail of her.

Her brow was furrowed in concentration as she focused intently upon what she was reading, her eyes scanning back and forth line by line. Her hair was up, absently knotted in a bun that left her neck bare but for a few stray tendrils. Ron admired the graceful arc of it as she bent over the book. Though she'd discarded her robes, she still wore her Hogwarts uniform, shirt buttoned all the way up and her tie properly knotted. It made him crazy sometimes, the way she was always impeccably fastidious about that tie. She never loosened it. She never let it hang down the way other students did. It made him want to unknot it and pull it from around her neck. It made him want to tug open the stiff collar and feast his eyes on her soft skin. He wanted to kiss her there, at the hollow in her throat, and then nibble his way across her collarbone.

He wanted a lot of things, when it came to Hermione, but his obsession over that one, unexposed patch of skin was probably the most bizarre. Really, it was just one more example of the hold she had over him. A hold that she'd always appeared completely unaware of.

In Ron's mind, he saw Hermione lift her eyes to his…perhaps sensing his gaze upon her. Her lips curved into a soft smile for him before her attention returned to the book she held. Face burning with embarrassment at having been caught staring, Ron's eyes quickly darted back to the chessboard.

Ron was startled back into the present when the group of people around him started to move. He belatedly realized that the light had changed, and the signal across the street proclaimed that it was safe for them to cross. Ron kept one hand in his pocket, his fingers curling lightly around the long, slender reed of wood within.

It had been only months since he'd been simply a student at Hogwarts, but times had changed. He'd learned the hard way to never be without his wand.

He stepped up onto the curb, nimbly dodging a focused-looking young woman who bounced along with brisk, no-nonsense steps. A shadow of a smile tugged at his lips as he paused to watch her cross the street. She was tall, blonde, and beautiful, but that wasn't what had snagged his attention. The woman's purposeful stride reminded him again of Hermione, the way she'd been only months ago. Ages ago.

Smile fading, Ron turned to follow the sidewalk. He tried to banish the lingering image of Hermione curled up on the sofa, her gaze locking with his across the common room. He couldn't even be certain if it was a real memory, or just an idealized archetype based upon a hundred such evenings, but he supposed it didn't matter. It was proof, if nothing else, that there _had_ been happy moments. Scores of them, and they helped to sustain him now that there _were_ no breaks. Now that there were no moments of joy, or contentment, or security.

Now there was only the war. Now there was only the struggle to stay one step ahead of Voldemort's forces. Now they were all soldiers.

Though they'd never officially graduated, the trio – along with many of their classmates – had left childhood far behind them.

Ron arrived at his destination, feeling the weight of reality settling back onto his shoulders. It had been nice, for a moment there, daydreaming about the past, but there could be no real escape from the present.

He stood on the sidewalk before the storefront, taking a moment to look at it the way muggles did. The dingy interior was completely stripped. No merchandise remained in the shop. The floor was bare and grimy, coated in a thick layer of dust that revealed no footprints. Only cobwebs decorated the corners, which existed in deep shadows due to the lack of lighting inside. He knew that any muggle who bothered to peer in through the streaked glass would see only this, observing the unswept stoop, the "For Lease" sign in the window, and assume that the store had gone out of business long ago. But like so many things in the magical world, the vacant shop was not what it appeared to be.

Ron casually glanced to his left, then to his right. When he was sure no one watched him, he quickly pulled out his wand and tapped it once against the lock. "Alohamora," he whispered.

The spell that unlocked the door was a very simple one, but it was enough for their current purpose. The empty shop was nothing more than a bolthole…a safe, temporary hideout for witches and wizards on the run until they could make more permanent plans. There were dozens of them scattered across London, and more all throughout England and Scotland. None were strategically vital bases, and that was why the spell was so easy. The main objective was to keep muggles out, but not any witch or wizard in dire need of shelter from pursuers. Slipping the wand back into his pocket, Ron grasped the doorknob in his hand and turned.

The room he entered bore little resemblance to the one visible from the sidewalk. The basic structure was the same – four walls, a floor, a doorway leading to a back room and a spiral staircase twisting in a double helix up to the second level – but there the similarity ended.

While Ron would have classified the room as spare – after all, it was a place of temporary respite, not a four-star hotel – it was furnished well enough to allow a few people to comfortably spend a night or two. There was a round wooden table with chairs off to one side of the room, and a sofa and loveseat combination squared off across from the fireplace on the other. Upstairs, Ron knew, there were several beds, and it was there that he'd expected to find Hermione. So he stopped in surprise when he saw her seated on the sofa.

It startled him for a moment…her sitting there in the way he'd just been imagining. The sofa was even burgundy coloured, like the one back in the common room at Hogwarts, and the two images of her overlapped for a moment before he shook his head, dispelling the memory.

The illusion faded, leaving him with only one Hermione. A Hermione who wasn't absorbed in a book, or glancing up with a smile as she checked on him. In fact, she didn't even appear to register his entrance. She simply sat there, gazing into the fireplace.

Ron supposed that if there'd been a fire blazing, he wouldn't feel so unsettled by her unwavering stare, but there was nothing in the cold hearth for her to see but ashes.

Forcing a light tone, Ron said, "I didn't expect you to be up already. It's early, yet."

Hermione blinked. Her eyelashes fluttered a few times as she woke from whatever thoughts she'd been lost in, but she didn't look over at him. "I couldn't sleep," she said.

Ron knew the feeling. He'd awakened even before the pigeons in the square outside. Noting the blackness of night still pressed up against the window, he'd lain in bed a few minutes longer, staring at the ceiling and wondering what the hell they were going to do. When it finally penetrated that sleep was done with him, he'd risen to check on Hermione. She'd still been sleeping, then…curled up into a ball on her side. Her knees were drawn up to her chest as if she were trying to make herself as small as possible. Ron recognized it for the defensive posture it was. It was like she was guarding herself from attack, even in sleep.

He'd stood over her, watching her slumber. Her brows knitted together in response to some unpleasant dream, and she shifted. One slender arm reached out across the sheet, toward Ron, as if unconsciously seeking him. Ron had swallowed and turned away, before doing something stupid like taking her hand to reassure them both.

He'd told himself he wasn't running, when he set out to get the coordinates they needed, but the thought plagued him. What could he have been running from? If anything, it had been from his own overwhelming feelings. Not from Hermione…never Hermione. He hated to even leave her alone for the short amount of time it would take to meet his contact, but he hated to wake her even more. She needed whatever rest she could find. They all did, these days.

But now it appeared as if she hadn't gotten much more sleep than he had; there were dark circles under her eyes, and she just looked…weary. Still looking into the dregs of a dead fire, she asked, "Did you get them?"

Ron reached into the pocket that didn't contain his wand and pulled out a scrap piece of paper. "Yeah."

He smoothed it out and looked again at the coordinates the old man had scrawled there. Conversation had been minimal. Once the wizard was satisfied that Ron was who he said he was, he'd hastily written down the information he had to pass along. A few moments later the old man's moustache had risen and elongated, lengthening into thick, fleshy whiskers as he transformed himself into a catfish and plopped into the Thames. Ron had caught only a glimpse of his tail fin flicking through the water, and then the animagus was gone.

"Yeah," Ron repeated, when Hermione didn't respond. "We can leave anytime."

Hermione bit her lip. She continued gazing into the empty fireplace as if it were a crystal ball. "I'm afraid to," she confessed. "What if we leave, and he comes here looking for us?"

Ron hated having to puncture her bubble of hope, but he was reluctant to let her remain disillusioned about Harry's chances. He stepped toward her. "Hermione," he said gently, "you know what the plan was. If we got separated, we were supposed to meet here right away. We've already waited two days. If he were able to come…"

"He'd be here by now," Hermione said dully.

"Yes."

Hermione's hands were resting in her lap, and Ron watched as one squeezed into a tight fist. The knuckles went white, and he was sure her nails were digging into the palm of her hand. Her jaw clenched, and she looked down. "I know," she said quietly.

Ron felt his heart tearing for at least the twentieth time in the past two days. It broke for Harry who – though he was currently listed as 'Missing in Action' – was in all probability already dead. Ron had no idea how he was going to deal with this. Fortunately, the reality of it hadn't really hit him, yet, and he was glad. He needed to be strong right now, for Hermione, and he knew he wouldn't be able to do that if he gave in and mourned his friend.

It broke for Hermione, who was so shell-shocked from the past few days' events that she'd barely been able to speak. She moved as would a wraith, ghostly quiet and nearly as insubstantial. He caught the glint of a tear as it fell onto her hands, but she remained silent.

And his heart broke for himself. Unable to help either of his friends…not even knowing if one of them was alive or not…he'd never felt so useless in his life.

Needing to do something, wanting only to comfort her, Ron knelt before the sofa. He gently took her chin in his hand and raised her head so that their eyes met. "Look," he said, "if there's anywhere he'd go now, it would be back to Headquarters. That's where we need to be."

More tears spilled from her eyes as she remained trapped in his intent gaze. "I know," she whispered. "I just…I'm so afraid, Ron. If we lose him…"

"Hey," Ron interrupted firmly, "if anyone could have gotten away, it would be Harry. But we can't do anything for him here, Hermione. We've been here too long already, waiting for him."

Hermione nodded, taking a deep breath. She squeezed his hand, once, and then let go. "You're right," she said, standing.

Ron was relieved. Though he hated to see Hermione cry, tears were better than the solemn, non-responsive girl he'd spent the last two days with. Her finally admitting her fears to him was a big step up from the utter lack of communication between them since coming to the bolthole. The fact that she had some direction now was even better. It was still a far cry from her typical, focused sense of purpose, but it was progress.

He left Hermione to straighten up the room while he took a final trip upstairs to gather their meager belongings. They'd been traveling light; everything between them fit into one knapsack, which Ron slung over his shoulder. He stood in the center of the bedroom and looked around one last time. There was nothing left to show that they'd ever stayed there. It was just as barren as it was two days ago when they'd stumbled in, shaken to the core and desperate for word from Harry.

They still hadn't received any sort of communication from him, and the chances that he'd made it out alive decreased by the hour. Ron felt despair licking at his heart like a cold flame, but he tamped it down angrily. He wouldn't give in to it. He couldn't, not when Hermione needed him to be strong. This mission hadn't been easy for anyone, but it had done something to her in particular. It had hurt her more than the others, and Ron had the sense now that she'd been somehow damaged by her experience. And the fact that they couldn't locate Harry to find out if he was okay or not was definitely not helping.

Ron rolled his shoulders a little, as if attempting to more comfortably seat the burden of responsibility weighted there, and headed down the stairs.

**VV**

Near nightfall, Ron and Hermione finally stumbled out of their last empty fireplace of the day. They were exhausted and off balance from the rocky ride through the Floo network. For security reasons there _was_ no path that led directly to Headquarters anymore, and coordinates to all of the checkpoints a traveler got bounced to were changed frequently. This was why Ron had gotten up so early to meet the animagus, to receive an updated set of coordinates. They'd spent the entire day traveling from one checkpoint to the next, and both of them were weary beyond belief.

Wanting only to fall bonelessly into the nearest bed, Ron re-settled the strap of the knapsack over his shoulder for the tenth time that day and reached out to help steady Hermione. His hand grasped only air, however, because she was already striding forth from the ashes, like a Phoenix. Exhaustion forgotten, her eyes sought out the guard of the hearth. Her gaze lit upon him with the intensity of a beacon, and the young man wilted visibly under her direct focus. "Has there been any word from Harry Potter?" she demanded.

Ron was sure Hermione's voice sounded strong to the guard, but he himself could hear the anxiety in it. He detected a tremulous waver, indicating just how much she had vested in the answer. Truth be told, he did too, so he listened just as hard.

The guard swallowed, eyes darting back and forth between the new arrivals. He looked about their age, but after seven nearly complete years at Hogwarts, Ron was sure he didn't know the boy. He must have come from one of the other wizarding schools, which was unfortunate. At least the Hogwarts alumni treated Harry, Ron and Hermione like people, and not 'the golden trio'.

It was ironic, in a way. All those years Ron had spent on what he perceived to be the sidelines, mildly envious of Harry and his fame, and now he'd cheerfully shave his head, walk backwards, and wear an eye patch if it would gain him a little anonymity. Only now could he understand what it was like to always be watched. To have expectations heaped upon him just for being who he was.

It was like this everywhere. Unless they were dealing with someone they already knew, they could never get a straight, expeditious answer. There always had to be that _pause_ while the person being questioned goggled at them, and after the day they'd had, Ron had no patience for it.

"She asked you a question," he said sharply.

The boy gulped. "I don't know, sir," he said. "I mean, I don't think so, but…I'm just supposed to keep watch over the fireplace and register comings and goings, you know? I'm not exactly in the loop."

Ron sighed. The 'sir' from someone his own age made him feel even older…even further away from childhood. But the guard was right. Of course he wouldn't have been informed if Harry had been in contact. Most missions were on a need-to-know basis. Clearly, the keeper of the hearth didn't really need to know about any potential communications from field operatives. Ron jerked a nod at the boy to show he understood, and placed a hand at the small of Hermione's back to lead her away. He felt her trembling a little, but noticed that she kept her expression impassive. She didn't hesitate when Ron gently applied pressure, propelling her out of the room.

The fireplace they'd arrived through was not the largest at Headquarters, but it was the most heavily trafficked due to it's position in the house. From the main parlor, Ron and Hermione entered the foyer. To their left was the front door; to the right were the grand, dual staircases. Each was nestled against a wall at opposite ends of the room and climbed up to the second floor like winding ivy. The graceful arcs followed the curve in the walls, meeting in the middle on a landing that led to the next level. The banisters were things of beauty…their flawless, uninterrupted length dipped outward, then in again at the bottom. From the first moment Ron had set foot in the old mansion, the gleaming polish of the mahogany rails had called to him, just _begging_ to be ridden. From top to bottom, a slide down one of those banisters would be the ride of a lifetime. He'd scarcely even noticed the magnificent chandelier, the thick tapestries, the plush rugs. Everything in him had cried out to slide down one of those fantastic rails.

Unfortunately, rail-riding was a very distinctly childish past-time, and not at all an appropriate activity for field operatives to engage in during a time of war. Or so he'd been told by Hermione, when they first arrived here with Harry eight months ago and she'd interpreted the gleeful anticipation on his face. Once again, Ron was struck by the glaring difference between the outspoken girl he'd been friends with for the past seven years, and the silent waif at his side now.

As they crossed the grand foyer, a pretty teenager with long auburn hair broke away from the throng of wizards near the door and met them in the center of the room. Before she'd even opened her mouth to speak, Ron knew there'd been no word from Harry. The deep concern in her eyes told him everything.

He spoke first, hoping to circumvent the bad news so that Hermione wouldn't have to hear it. "Ginny," he greeted his sister. "Is Dumbledore in his office? We need to debrief."

Ginny hesitated, trying to decipher the message in Ron's eyes. Finally, she nodded. "He was meeting with the professors about the in-house schooling sessions, but they should be about finished by now."

Ron nodded a thanks for her discretion, and then glanced from her to Hermione, who was standing there silently beside him. Though her head was aimed in Ginny's general direction, her gaze was unfocused, and Ron realized that she was about to drop. "Why don't you let Ginny get you settled in, Hermione?" he asked gently. "I'll go debrief and meet up with you after."

Hermione's eyes focused, and she nodded. She made no sound as she took the knapsack from Ron and was led away. He watched until they left the foyer through a door directly in the middle of the stairs, and then turned to head up to the second level.

It had been eight months since the official start of the war between Voldemort and the Order of the Phoenix. Dumbledore had seen it coming and – knowing there wasn't enough room for all of their forces at 12 Grimmauld Place – had wisely sought out a new base of operations. He'd found the mansion, and now it functioned as their headquarters, their dormitories, their training center, their infirmary, and their school. For now, it was their world.

It was a vast, sprawling structure with whole wings Ron had never seen. There were so many rooms, he wondered if they didn't mate at night and make little baby rooms. It was, after all, a magical house, and he supposed anything was possible.

At the top of the stairs there was a landing. From it, there was a choice of three directions. One could go left or right, taking corridors to either side. Or forward, into the depths of the mansion. Ron never paused in his forward trajectory, and strode down a long hallway until he reached the door at the other end. He opened it.

Ginny had been right; Dumbledore's meeting had just broken up. Ron was able to surmise this from the sight of several wizards and witches of high rank milling about in the outer office. He didn't recognize any of them, so they must have been professors from other wizarding schools. All of them looked up when the door opened, and their conversations broke off suddenly when they realized who he was.

Ron stood in the doorway uncertainly, feeling the weight of their curiosity upon him. All of them knew his identity. They no doubt wanted to know what had happened, and Harry's whereabouts.

Ron's pulse spiked with anger. Somewhere along the way, Harry had been elected the unofficial savior of this war, and he hated the way all of the people in this room were looking at him. They watched him avidly, like dogs eyeing a treat, and Ron realized again that this was how Harry must feel all the time. Always watched, always staggering under the weight of this burden. Ron felt scrutinized by the people facing him, and he was just the sidekick. He couldn't begin to imagine what it was like for Harry to try and live up to the expectations of this lot, and he felt a shiver of loathing ripple through him.

Here they were, all accomplished wizards and witches who had been teaching or at least using magic for the better part of half a century, and they had the indecency to pin their hopes on a seventeen year old boy who had never asked for the responsibility.

Ron clenched his fists, his first reaction to anger always a physical one. But luckily – for him, or for the professors who were devouring him with their expressive, needy eyes, he wasn't sure – Dumbledore chose that moment to exit his inner office.

Either the Headmaster of Hogwarts didn't notice the ugly vibes in the room, or he _chose_ not to notice. Based upon his experiences with Dumbledore over the past seven years, Ron was willing to bet it was the latter. Dumbledore missed nothing.

The aged Headmaster perked up when he saw Ron. "Ah, Mr. Weasley, you're back. I do hope the checkpoints weren't overly numerous today."

As always, Dumbledore's presence had an instant sobering effect on those around him. The professors – acting like a pack of wolves chased off from circling a sheep by an angry farmer – slunk out. Dumbledore's smile of welcome never changed as he approached Ron.

For his part, Ron realized that Dumbledore was the first person he'd encountered so far today who didn't make him feel a little bit like a rack of lamb for sale in a shop window. Ron calmed as the razor edge of anger inside him dulled, then melted away entirely. The Headmaster had that effect on people, too. He seemed to be the only person nowadays, other than Harry, Hermione, and his own family, who just _understood_.

At Dumbledore's beckoning gesture, Ron followed the professor into his inner office, which had been charmed to look just like his old office at Hogwarts. Ron remembered the first time he'd been invited into this room. Noting the confused expression on the redhead's face, Dumbledore had explained, "It's just easier to remember where everything is, this way."

Now, Dumbledore offered Ron a seat before taking his own behind the massive desk. Only then did he allow an expression other than benevolence to show on his face. It was concern that furrowed his brow as he looked at Ron. "I couldn't help but notice that Miss Granger did not accompany you for debriefing. Is she unwell?"

Ron cleared his throat. "That's one way to put it, I guess."

When Dumbledore only arched an eyebrow, silently indicating that he should go on, Ron did. "Well, you know the basics already, from the owl we sent you right…right after. We'd lost Harry somewhere in the fighting. After we got the rest of the kids out of there we came back and looked all over, but we couldn't find him. And it wasn't safe to stay. We both knew that, but I had to practically drag Hermione away. Losing him, on top of that kid, it…did something to her. I'm uh…actually pretty worried about her," Ron confessed, running a telltale hand through his hair.

Dumbledore noticed, but said nothing. Ron continued, "She's downstairs with Ginny, now, getting settled in. I didn't want her to have to, you know, go through all this again."

"Your concern for your friend is certainly laudable, Mr. Weasley," Dumbledore said. "As to the lodgings, however, I'm afraid we are 'all booked up' for the evening. You may find your accommodations lacking."

Ron laughed humorlessly. "Don't worry, Professor…no matter how bad it is, we've had worse, I'm sure."

Dumbledore's eyes seemed to dim a little, with regret. "Yes, I'm sure you have."

Ron shifted uncomfortably, waiting out the silence until Dumbledore either picked up the conversation again or relieved him. Finally, the Headmaster spoke, his tone as deceptively light as if they were talking about Quidditch tryouts. "And there was no sign of Harry when you went back?"

Ron shook his head, loss knifing through his chest. He ruthlessly shoved it away. He wouldn't think about it. He couldn't. Not yet. When he spoke, he aimed for the same conversational tone. "No. There were signs of the fighting, and there was lots of…um, blood on the ground, and in the house, but we had no way of knowing whose it was. Harry's, or the Death Eaters'."

Ron paused, remembering. "I'm the impetuous one. That's what Hermione always says. But before I even had a chance to lose it, _she_ did. She…well, after that little boy, she was just… She couldn't handle it, you know? And somehow that made it easier on me. Like, I couldn't help Harry, but Hermione was there, and she needed me. I could take care of _her_."

Ron suddenly remembered who he was talking to, and looked up, abruptly. A faint blush spread across his cheeks, and he cleared his throat again. Across the desk, Dumbledore smiled faintly. Ron, however, didn't notice because he'd ducked his head again, embarrassed. "Anyway," he finished, "I got her out of there, and we waited at the bolthole for Harry to meet us. But he never showed up."

Back on safe – if grim – ground, Ron looked up at the Headmaster again. His face seemed to want to express hope, but couldn't. "Do you think there's any chance at all that he's okay, Professor?" Ron asked, sounding very young all of the sudden.

Dumbledore thought for a moment before replying. "Like you, Mr. Weasley, Harry's disappearance causes me grave concern. However, I feel that there is always cause for hope. I believe that if he were truly dead, we would know of it. I cannot think of any other reason why Voldemort would not have commenced with his attack by now, if he'd already won that battle."

Ron brightened…Dumbledore's words made sense. If Harry were dead, surely the bad guys would know, right?

Dumbledore saw this, and looked at Ron gravely. "I do not wish to give you false hope, Mr. Weasley. But nor do I wish for you to have no hope at all." He paused, noting how exhausted the young man across from him looked. "Consider yourself relieved," he said gently. "Go find your friend. Get the rest that you deserve, while you can. I will keep you informed if we learn anything about Mr. Potter."

Ron nodded his thanks and stood wearily. As he walked out of Dumbledore's office, he prioritized his next movements. First on his agenda: Find Hermione. Secondly: Climb into the biggest, comfiest bed he was able to find and sleep until he couldn't sleep any more. Everything else could wait.


	2. Chapter 2

As it turned out, the bed was going to have to wait, too.

On his way to the dormitory wing he'd been accosted by Fred and George, who had dragged him off to see their mother. Nearly the whole rest of his family was there, too, and so he stayed to catch up with everyone there a bit longer than he'd planned. As soon as he was able, he untangled himself from the snarl of Weasleys and went about his mission.

After asking nearly every person he encountered in the dormitory wing (which was quite a feat in and of itself, since he'd never actually seen so many people crammed together in one place before), Ron finally obtained directions to where Ginny had set him and Hermione up to bunk for the night.

As he followed them, frequently stopping to consult the crude map a fifth year (former) Hogwarts student had drawn for him, his sense of foreboding grew. After Dumbledore's warning, Ron had known they wouldn't manage to get one of the best rooms. He thought they might even be crammed into the main dormitory wing with all of the other students, but the fifth year's directions were leading him into broom closet territory. Finally, at the end of the last hallway, Ron found Hermione behind the last door.

If the room at the bolthole had been spare, this one was downright meager. There were exactly two pieces of furniture in the entire room: an overstuffed sofa and a writing desk with no chair. And now that Ron thought about it, using the word 'entire' to describe the room was doing it an unwarranted favor, since it was approximately the same size as the family washroom, back at the Burrow.

Hermione was seated on the center cushion of the couch, bent over so that her chin rested in her hands. There was a neat, folded pile of linens and a pillow on either side of her. One set for each of them, presumably, though there was no bed in sight to make. She looked up when he came in.

Ron stopped dead, dumbstruck. "You've got to be joking."

Hermione looked around a bit blankly, as if seeing the room for the first time. "Ginny said the dormitory wing is full."

Ron shook his head incredulously. "Dumbledore said we'd find the accommodations lacking…he didn't say we'd be lacking beds!"

About three strides took him to the other side of the room, where there was another door. Ron flung it open to discover a tiny loo. He turned back to Hermione. "This is ridiculous! I know we're pretty much just foot soldiers, here, but don't we at least rate a couple of mattresses? I mean, honestly! They wouldn't have stuck Harry in - "

He bit off the end of his rant, too late. He stole a guilty glance at Hermione, who was looking down at her hands. After a beat of silence, she said, "There's been no word from him."

"I know," Ron answered, feeling like scum for having brought it up, and low for even _sounding_ the least bit jealous of Harry. It was wrong to feel that way, especially now. "I shouldn't have said that," he mumbled.

"Don't," Hermione said, her head snapping up. "Ginny wouldn't talk about him. When we ran into her in the corridor, _Tonks_ wouldn't talk about him. The whole _mansion_ is afraid to say his name around me. Don't you do it, too."

Ron stared at her. This was the first time she'd raised her voice in days. The first time she'd shown passion about anything since he'd hauled her away from the blood-soaked lawn of that accursed house.

As he watched, however, she seemed to deflate. It was as if too much energy was required for her to be so involved, and she couldn't maintain it. It drained out of her, and she looked back down at her hands. "I know you've been looking after me," she said quietly. "I know I've been…sort of lost. But I don't need to be mollycoddled, Ron. I'm not made of glass. Everyone's handling me like a breakable object, and I don't want you to treat me that way, too."

So softly that he almost couldn't hear her, she added, "I can't take that from you. You're all I've got left."

Ron's jaw clenched. If she hoped to somehow disable the protective urge he felt when it came to her, then she'd failed miserably with her final sentence.

With the exception of Harry, Hermione had had more taken away from her than any of them. As a muggle-born, and one of Harry's closest friends, she'd been an obvious target from the beginning. Dumbledore had known that and taken steps to protect her, and her family, but Voldemort's Death Eaters had been faster.

Unbidden, memories of that night came to Ron in flashes. He couldn't seem to remember the exact order of events on that horror-filled evening. Instead, what he had was a small collection of frozen images that had been forever seared into his brain. He remembered vividly the dirt and grime smeared on the students' faces after their harrowing escape from Hogwarts through the underground tunnel that led to the Shrieking Shack. He remembered the unbearable sorrow wrapped around Dumbledore like a cloak as he approached the trio. He remembered the desolate panic in Hermione's eyes when she realized what Dumbledore was trying to tell her. When she realized that her parents were dead.

And he remembered catching Hermione as her knees buckled, and the way her whole body had shaken from the force of her sobs as he held her. He remembered sharing a silent, mingled look of fury and helplessness with Harry over her head as they both tried their meager best to console her.

That night had been eight months ago, and was the official start of the war. Voldemort had struck without warning, and used the element of surprise ruthlessly. The Death Eaters had shown no mercy, and nearly a hundred students' families had been attacked. Voldemort himself had launched a simultaneous assault on Hogwarts, succeeding in driving the students and professors from their sanctuary.

Luckily, Dumbledore'd had the mansion waiting.

That had been a cold comfort, though, for Hermione. In one night she'd lost her family, her home, the school and the life that she loved. All she'd been left with, really, were Ron and Harry. Like remoras to a shark, they had remained tightly by her side ever since, sharing an unspoken vow to keep her from suffering any more than she already had.

But now Harry was gone, and Hermione was right. Ron was all she had left. It killed him, knowing that he'd failed to save his best friend. And it killed him now to know that he couldn't protect the girl he loved. What was more, she didn't even want him to.

Then again, when had he ever structured his life around what _she_ thought he should do?

Ron gritted his teeth, trying to siphon off the worst of his temper, for Hermione's sake. He paced back and forth, his movements quick and jerky. "This is just…wrong," he said finally, trying to stay focused on anger. Anger was easier. "We may not be so bloody important in the grand scheme of things, but we deserve more than this."

"It's not that bad," Hermione said, in that maddeningly dispassionate tone.

"Yes, it is," Ron argued. He was seething.

Hermione sighed. "Ron, just…calm down. You can have the sofa."

He stopped pacing. "What?"

Hermione stood and rooted through the first stack of linens. "I can't sleep, anyway," she said as she spread a sheet down on the floor. "So you can take the sofa."

"Is that what you think this is about?" Ron asked incredulously.

Hermione's brow furrowed in confusion. "Isn't it?"

"No!" he exclaimed. Hermione looked at him oddly and Ron shut up before he could make a fool of himself by saying what it _was_ all about.

_It's about you losing your parents. It's about Harry living his whole life under the shadow of what was done to him. It's about having to grow up too fast, and missing out on all of the things kids should get to do before they have to worry about dying. It's about me feeling helpless, because I can't stop any of it. It's about watching you squeeze into that black crawlspace over and over, fighting off the hysteria because you **had** to, and I can't even get you a damn bed to sleep in._

Irrationally upset with her for not understanding, mostly angry with himself, Ron stalked past her to the sofa. He unceremoniously plucked up his own linens and dumped them on the floor. "_You're_ taking the sofa," he said, pointing at her to remove any doubt.

Something flickered in the depths of Hermione's eyes. "Oh, am I?"

Hearing the confrontation in her tone, Ron crossed his arms. "It's not open for debate."

He expected a fight. He expected that when she opened her mouth, she'd argue that he couldn't tell her what to do, she'd sleep where she chose, and that she wouldn't stand idly by and let him dictate her life. Basically, he was expecting her to say that he was not the boss of her. Part of him was even looking forward to it.

To his considerable surprise, however, she said none of those things. The flicker in her eyes that usually indicated the beginning of a row now warmed into something else. Her lips twitched into a small smile.

Ron was baffled by her response, until she picked her sheet up again and began to make up the sofa with it. "Well," she said, sounding curiously pleased, "if you can still get angry with me, at least it means you aren't worried about breaking me, anymore."

**VV**

Though Hermione knew how much Ron enjoyed the trappings of a good nod – namely a big, fluffy bed, and hours and hours available in which to lie in it – she wasn't the least bit surprised when he fell asleep on the cold floor of the room within minutes of turning in.

Nor was she at all puzzled when she at first found herself unable to follow him into unconsciousness. Sleep had been an elusive aspect of her life for the better part of the past year. Now, since their last mission and Harry's disappearance, it felt utterly unattainable.

Still, Hermione tried anyway. Being quiet to avoid waking Ron, she shifted onto her side. The high back of the sofa trapped the heat her body radiated behind her, keeping her back warm. The rest of her was cold.

She stared blindly out into the room, the gloom robbing her of sight. Ron had left the light on in the washroom, pulling the door nearly all the way closed so they'd have a little illumination in the windowless room, but not enough to keep them awake. All she could really make out was the dark shape of Ron's form below her on the floor. His blanket was wrapped around him like a cocoon; only the top of his head was visible sticking out at one end.

Hermione surprised herself for the second time that night by smiling at the image.

After her parents died, she'd thought that she'd never be able to feel happy about anything again. Suddenly everything seemed so hopeless, and so dark. So pointless. And she knew deep down, even now, that there would probably always be a part of her that was tarnished. She would never again be as innocent, as carefree as she once was, and she felt doomed to despair for the rest of her life.

But in the months after, she'd found a new strength inside herself, helped along in large parts by her friendship with Harry and Ron. They had responded to her need, sticking by her until finally she began to heal. She owed them everything.

Now one of her friends was missing, and she felt broken again. Ron had surprised a smile out of her earlier. And now, lying here in the dark next to him, she was startled again by how peaceful she felt.

There was so much she had to worry about. So much to dread. But for now, all she could think about was how like a little boy Ron looked. His uncomplicated presence there reassured her, comforted her when she thought she was beyond comfort, and did the impossible for her. Lulled by the even sound of his breathing, she slipped into sleep.

_Though muffled by the earth that surrounded her, and the empty rooms above, Hermione could still hear the sounds of fighting outside._

_Shouts made faint by distance. Rumblings in the ground from blasts of magic that missed their mark. _

_With each powerful reverberation, cracks appeared in the concrete walls. Small bits of stone were dislodged, and the air became thicker with dust. Hermione couldn't help but draw it into her lungs with each ragged breath. It was a gritty chalk on her tongue, but she preferred it to that **other** taste. She tried not to think about it, but she couldn't ignore the sweet, putrid flavor of decay that permeated the cellar. She tried not to look, but the limp, lifeless form in the corner lured her gaze like a magnet. _

_It was so small._

_But there was no time to dwell on it. No time to let despair pull her under. Ron was shouting for her to hurry. She could hardly hear him over the thin, terrified screams of the children. And above them, somewhere, Harry was fighting for all their lives. _

_The entrance to the crawlspace gaped like a narrow, toothless mouth. It waited to swallow her again. _

"_Hermione, come on! There can't be any more. Let's go!" Ron shouted._

_But she couldn't. She had to be sure. _

_Hermione crawled into the maw one last time, forcing herself into the tight confines of the passageway. It led to hell, but she had no choice. She felt insanity reaching up for her again from the depths of all that blackness, and tried to fight it off. The only thing stronger than her terror was the urgency flowing through her veins. _

_But there was no room, and so much fear. It pervaded the space she was in, infusing the darkness around her with an evil that clutched at her. It caressed her skin and wound tendrils around her ankles and wrists, pulling her deeper. She couldn't break free from it. She couldn't go back. She couldn't get away. _

_A scream bubbled up in her throat as the darkness devoured her alive. The pounding in the floor was a muscle that contracted around her as she was consumed. She was losing herself. She was lost._

_Then somewhere behind her she heard Ron frantically calling her name. Hermione tried desperately to turn around, but the walls were pressing in on her so tightly that she couldn't move. She squirmed helplessly, giving in to panic when she didn't budge. "Ron!" she screamed._

Then suddenly he was there with her. Somehow Ron was holding her. "Hermione!" he shouted again. He shook her, hard, and her eyes snapped open.

Madness fled. The shadows released her and retreated, banished to the corners of the room where they belonged. Hermione found herself in Ron's arms, and his touch was as warm and soothing as sunlight on her chilled skin.

She had been instantly freed from the nightmare. Like a switch had been thrown, suddenly the horror was gone and Ron had delivered her from it.

He was sitting next to her on the sofa, and Hermione clung to him, panting, her face buried at the base of his throat. A rapid beat drummed in his chest. She could feel it beneath her hands; it nearly matched the pace of her own heart. His arms were around her, solid and strong, and she began to relax immediately within his secure embrace. She realized with horror that the small whimpering noises she heard were coming from her own throat, and stopped.

Sensing her calm, Ron shifted a little and she felt him looking down at her. "Merlin's beard, Hermione. Are you all right?"

Hermione took a final, shuddering breath as she expelled the rest of the nightmare. She couldn't seem to pull away from the refuge he provided – not yet – so she stayed where she was. "It was just a dream," she said.

Ron sounded dubious at her simple explanation. "That must've been some dream. You were screaming."

Hermione didn't answer, and she felt him duck his head, trying to see her face. "Do you want to talk about it?"

She shook her head quickly. "No. No, I'm all right now. I'm sorry I woke you."

"It's all right," Ron said absently, blinking rapidly. She could tell that she'd woken him from a dead sleep. And now that he knew there was no danger, the adrenaline rush dropped him and drowsiness returned full-force.

He made as if to release her and Hermione gripped him tighter, panicked. "Ron, wait… Could you…stay? Please?"

She hated the way she sounded, so vulnerable and dependent. But she couldn't face the nightmare alone again.

She sensed surprise in his sharp intake of breath, and by the brief bracing of his muscles. Her eyes closed. She was torn between embarrassment for asking, and the desperate fear that he would say no. But then he relaxed. "Okay," he said, and instantly she could breathe again.

Hermione found that she could release him now, and she scooted over to make room. Ron stretched out beside her, his movements awkward in this new, unfamiliar proximity to her. It was too dark to see if his ears were red, but from the flustered expression on his face she knew they were.

He didn't look at her directly as he found a comfortable position for all of his limbs; nor could Hermione meet his eyes as she lay down next to him. There wasn't much surface area to the cushions, a fact that secretly pleased Hermione because it forced her to nestle closely at Ron's side. With no other place to rest his free arm, Ron tentatively let it drop to his midsection. His fingers brushed her elbow.

It wasn't quite as secure as she'd felt in his arms, but this was nice, too. She felt protected. She felt warm. And she felt safe enough to close her eyes again.

**VV**

Morning had once been her favourite part of the day.

Since her initial arrival at Hogwarts, Hermione had approached every new day with a sense of nearly fanatical eagerness. It was an exciting new time! There was so much to do. So much to learn! While her roommates always groaned and buried their heads under their pillows at the first rays of sunlight, Hermione fairly leapt from sleep, quivering with excitement at the thought of what each day might bring.

Since the death of her parents, however, Hermione had naturally found that she just couldn't summon up the same enthusiasm she'd once had for the start of a brand new day. Since the cessation of classes and the recent Death Eater infestation at Hogwarts, there seemed to be precious little for her to look forward to, anymore. Still, from personal experience, Hermione knew that morning was the best time of the day for some people.

Ron Weasley was not one of those people.

This wasn't exactly breaking news to Hermione, but it was remarkably inconvenient. She shoved him, eliciting nothing more than a grunt in response. He didn't get up. He didn't shift. He didn't even open his eyes. He remained exactly where he'd been ever since Hermione had awoken.

On top of her.

She pushed at him again, feeling her face heat up. This was very embarrassing. First of all, he was only on the sofa with her to begin with because she'd asked him to stay. It was hard to blame him for her current predicament when she'd brought it solely upon herself.

It would still have been all right, though, if she'd been able to extricate herself from him in a dignified manner. But the first thing she'd noticed upon waking was that she couldn't move. There was a warm, heavy weight on top of her, pinning her to the sofa. And it was snoring.

Her eyes had snapped open, and she'd immediately discovered the source: Ron. Over the course of the night he had claimed inch after inch, mercilessly advancing like a conquering nation, until he had taken over the whole sofa. He was lying on his stomach with half of his chest draped across her upper body. His right arm was more or less wrapped around her, and his legs were tangled with hers. His face was turned toward her, inches from her own.

Hermione herself had shifted, as well; instead of being snuggled up on her side against him, she was lying flat on her back. Her right arm and leg – as well as most of the rest of her – were buried beneath him. Her chin was nearly even with Ron's shoulder if she looked straight up at the ceiling. By turning her head to the side, she found herself on level with his lips.

His lips…

Hermione flushed even more. She was disconcerted by the whole experience – Merlin knew she'd never slept in a boy's arms before! – but mostly because it was Ron. Somehow, she didn't think she'd be having quite the same reaction to someone else's lips. There was something undeniably intimate about lying there with him, like this, with more of their bodies touching than not. She was closer to him now than she'd ever had cause to be while they were awake, and she found herself wanting to take the opportunity to just look at him, for once not having to worry about whether or not he'd notice her stare.

She tried to fight the urge. It wasn't right. With everything that was going on, and after all these years of keeping them hidden, now was definitely not the proper time to allow her inappropriate feelings to surface. And it wasn't fair to Ron. She knew he'd never be this close to her if she hadn't asked him to stay. It was bad enough she'd made him feel obligated to do something he wouldn't ordinarily have. She had no wish to make him even more uncomfortable, and no right to watch him sleep, on top of it.

She had no right, she told herself again, but couldn't seem to tear her gaze away. He looked so innocent, lying there. So familiar. Literally the only person she loved left in the world who hadn't been taken from her.

Her clueless champion. Her Ron.

Her best friend, who – if she didn't look away _right now_ – was going to wake up any minute and discover her watching him sleep. That simply wouldn't do.

Unfortunately, there appeared to be a serious communication problem between her brain and her body, because she was still staring at him. A wave of tenderness rose up in her, and she battled the impulse to reach up with her free hand and brush a lock of hair from his forehead. It was getting a little long again. She actually liked it better that way, but kept it to herself because she knew Ron would be scandalized if he was ever to learn that she thought about his hair. Now, though, it was getting long enough so that it was almost in his eyes.

In his light, clear blue eyes. His _open_ eyes.

Oh no.

Hermione's first, startled reaction at being caught was to jerk away and scream. There was, fortunately, a critical obstacle to that course of action; she was still trapped underneath him and couldn't jerk anywhere. And she managed to turn her surprised shriek into a surprised gasp, instead.

For his part, Ron seemed acutely awake, all of the sudden, for someone who'd been blissfully sawing logs only a moment before. His eyes were wide and unblinking. He also appeared to have stopped breathing, and he shared a profound, seemingly endless moment of absolute stillness with Hermione while they stared into each other's eyes.

Finally, he blinked, releasing her from the cage of his intense stare. "Hermione," he said, and she was surprised by the softness of his voice.

She wanted to gulp. "Yes?"

She would have expected him to be disconcerted, at the very least. Embarrassed, beyond a doubt. But his eyes were gentle, taking her off guard. "Why're you staring at me?"

There was a beat – only a fraction of a second – in which she thought about telling him. She had to admit there was a part of her that wanted to. A part of her that was so tired of hiding how she felt, and intrigued by his remarkable reaction to finding her gaze upon him. Then, sensing the possibility that she could still escape this mortifying turn of events relatively unscathed if she kept her wits about her, Hermione affected a casual, matter-of-fact tone. "Well, my options are rather limited, at present. It's either you or the ceiling."

Ron's brow furrowed as he looked at her in confusion. Hermione arched one of her own eyebrows at him in response, and then glanced meaningfully down at their entwined bodies.

His gaze followed hers. She could tell the very instant he registered what he was seeing, because he immediately turned so red that she was afraid his capillaries would burst from the sudden increase in pressure.

Ron sprang up from the sofa. Or rather, he tried to. Since he failed to disentangle himself from her first, however, all he actually succeeded in accomplishing was hurling himself to the floor. Unencumbered at last, Hermione sat up. "Are you all right?"

He was up again at once. "Fine, I'm fine," he said quickly. He looked everywhere but at her. "Uh…sorry about that," he said, gesturing vaguely in her direction.

Hermione took it to mean he was referring to the nocturnal snuggling. "It's all right."

"It's just that I'm not used to sleeping with anyone. I mean sharing a bed with someone," he amended hastily. Then, realizing that his last sentence didn't come across any better than the first had, he corrected himself again. "Sofa! I mean, sleeping on a sofa! Ruddy small thing, it is."

"It's all right," Hermione said again.

This time, Ron heard her. "Right." He raked a telltale hand through his hair, belying the nonchalance he was obviously trying to project. He sought to change the subject. "We should get ready for breakfast. I'm going to check in with Dumbledore to see if they've heard anything about Harry, first, but I'll meet you in the Hall."

Hermione, who had up until this moment been tempted to tease him a little just because he was so adorable when he was flustered, felt levity leave her.

For a few minutes, all thoughts of Harry had vanished from her mind, and she felt horrible. What kind of friend was she?

Not a very good one, she decided as she watched Ron pad into the loo. She stood wearily, grabbing up her blanket to fold it. It was an odd sort of thing, she mused, that she hadn't felt burdened at all while Ron was lying on top of her and she couldn't move. It was only now, when she was free again, that she felt weighed down.


	3. Chapter 3

There'd been no word.

He hadn't really expected there to have been. Dumbledore had promised that he'd inform them if he learned anything about Harry. But it was still with a heavy heart that Ron made his way to the Dining Hall for breakfast.

He supposed it was beginning to sink in. Now that he'd gotten Hermione back to the mansion safely, his thoughts had automatically turned to his other friend in need. But at least he'd be able to do something pro-active on that front today. The real weight on his mind this morning was self-blame.

He knew, intellectually, that he had nothing to feel culpable for. He knew that his first priority had to be to the mission, and helping Hermione rescue those children from the house had taken precedence over everything else. But he felt wretched about letting Harry defend them alone, especially since it had resulted in his disappearance.

And he knew that he'd spent the last three days watching over Hermione because she needed him, but that knowledge didn't take away the guilt he felt for – on some level – liking it.

Hermione hated not being perfect. She despised not knowing all the answers, and being completely in control of herself. He knew that better than anyone, so he knew full well that she must loathe him being there all the time, looking after her. And yet…it allowed him to be closer to her than he usually got the chance to be. And it brought out something in him. Something that he liked. But he was afraid that he was putting his own wants ahead of hers.

True, she had asked him to stay with her last night. But she hadn't asked him to rush to her at the first cry and pull her into his arms. She hadn't asked him to hold on while the nightmare released her, and he worried that he'd done those things for his own reasons. Because he'd wanted to.

She surely hadn't asked to wake up with him lying atop her this morning, and he had no way to justify _that_ one. There was no way around it. Subliminally, subconsciously, whatever word Hermione would have used to describe it, that's what it was. He wanted to protect her. He wanted to be with her, and it was getting harder and harder to hide. Harder to control.

If he didn't start taking more care, he was going to get himself into trouble. Like this morning. He could certainly understand the surprise he'd felt when he woke up to find Hermione watching him, but his misinterpretation of her expression had left him in quite a bind.

Imagine! The idea of Hermione watching him sleep because she'd wanted to. And yet for an instant…for just a moment, he would have sworn it was true from the look in her eyes. Traitorous hope had bloomed in his heart for that moment, and was the reason for the atypical softness in his voice when he'd questioned her.

Ron wanted to smack his forehead for being so thick. She had to have noticed how oddly he was behaving. She couldn't have missed it. It wasn't like him to reveal so much emotion…not that kind, anyway. But he wanted to. He'd let her see it because he thought that maybe she…

But no. All it had done was show him up to be an idiot. It also made him realize that he needed some distance. The last thing he wanted was to leave Hermione alone here, but his mission today was imperative. And if it also helped him to stay away from her for a little while so he could get a grip on himself, then all the better. Because the last thing _she_ needed, on top of everything else, was to have to deal with his unrequited feelings. And he didn't have to worry about leaving her alone at the mansion, did he? She was safer here than anywhere else.

The hard part, of course, was going to be convincing her to adhere to the plan.

With that worrisome objective in mind, Ron entered the Dining Hall. It was packed, as usual, with wizards and witches from all walks of life. Here and there he caught a glimpse of foreign-cut robes worn by the few wizards and witches overseas from the Americas, Australia and the far east. In general, however, pre-formed groups tended to stick together out of habit. The students from Hogwarts, Durmstag and Beautxbatons were like exotic fish…all existing in the same place, but schooling separately together, identified by their colors. But it wasn't uncommon to see professors rubbing elbows with students, or field operatives eating with bewildered-looking First Year would-have-beens.

Being creatures of habit, though, most people gravitated to the same spot every day, and so Ron found Hermione with very little delay. She'd gotten enough food for them both, and had staked out their usual spot at the table in the corner closest to the door.

He made his way over and sat down opposite her, reflecting that sometimes he guessed it wasn't so bad being part of the 'golden trio'. At the very least, it meant they didn't have to squabble for spots at the breakfast table. It also afforded them a little privacy in the crowded hall.

Ron snagged a couple pieces of toast from her tray with a mumbled thanks. She didn't answer, and when he looked up he found her to be watching him for the second time that day. This time, however, the light in her eyes was unmistakable.

"Nothing," he said quietly.

The light was extinguished, and Hermione's gaze dropped to the table again. She looked just like Ron felt: Unsurprised, but disappointed nonetheless.

Ron retrieved his plate from Hermione's tray and popped a sausage into his mouth. As he chewed, he contemplated the best way to bring up the conversation he needed to have with her. As always, however, she seemed to be one step ahead of him.

"I want to look for Harry today," she said suddenly.

Ron coughed, and Hermione rushed on as if afraid she wouldn't get to have her say. "There's no reason we can't," she said earnestly. "We haven't been assigned to a new mission, yet. And I know Professor Dumbledore's had people looking for him for a couple of days, already, but we know him best and might have more luck."

"And besides," she continued, overriding Ron when he opened his mouth to say something, "I can't just sit around here waiting. I need to do something. I know you do, too. We have to look for him."

"I brought it up to Dumbledore this morning," Ron said, when he had the chance. "He okayed it already."

"Oh," Hermione said. Her surprise quickly gave way to relief. "Oh, well good. For some reason I thought I'd have a harder time convincing you that I…"

"Never mind," she said then, but he was pretty sure he knew what she'd been going to say. And she was right.

This wasn't going to be easy.

"Yeah," he said, watching her. "I reckon the house is the best place to start."

Hermione stilled involuntarily. Then, without looking up, she visibly took hold of herself and resumed buttering her toast. The hand that held the knife trembled a little, but she never hesitated in her reply. "Now that we've got more time, we might find some clues we missed the first time," she agreed.

She glanced up to find Ron staring at her. "What is it?"

He said nothing for a moment; he couldn't. His heart ached. Only hours before she had come apart in his arms, screaming from the memories made in that house. But she would put it all aside and deliberately go back there if it might help them find Harry. She had no idea how courageous she was, in his eyes. She also didn't know that he wasn't going to let her do it. He supposed he should break that to her, eventually, and get on with the inevitable argument. He fought back a regretful sigh, wishing they could've at least finished eating, first.

He lifted his glass of pumpkin juice, deceptively casual as he took a drink. Setting it down again, he said, "I'll be heading out after breakfast."

Hermione didn't miss his wording. She looked at him sharply. "You mean _we'll_ be heading out after breakfast."

"No," Ron replied carefully, "I mean I will. You're staying here."

Storm clouds immediately overcast her expression, threatening doom. Ron could practically hear the thunder cracking. "I beg your pardon?"

"You heard me," Ron said, acting calmer than he felt. He'd known she would fly off the handle at his declaration, but there was no way he was letting her go back to that house. "And don't bother arguing," he continued. "I talked about it with Professor Dumbledore, and he agrees with me. He doesn't want you to go, either."

"You did what?!" Hermione exclaimed, slamming the knife down on the table. "How dare you go behind my back like that? Who do you think you are, making decisions for me? Forbidding me from going to look for my best friend?"

"Who am I?" Ron asked, getting angry now, himself. "I'm your _other_ best friend. The one who can see what that house did to you, and doesn't want you going back."

"You don't know what you're talking about!" she hissed furiously.

"Oh no?" Ron asked dangerously. He grabbed her hand and felt it trembling still. He offered it as evidence. "You're shaking, Hermione. The thought of going back there terrifies you."

Hermione tore her hand away from him, shooting to her feet. "So you think I won't? You think I can't handle it?"

"I know you can," Ron said. "But I don't want you there."

"You don't want…"

She trailed off and Ron watched, bewildered, as Hermione's wrath seemed to drain away. Some other, less definable emotion took its place, making her eyes gleam with unshed tears. He had the sudden urge to take it back…to take back whatever he'd said that had replaced her look of anger with one of hurt.

But before he could say anything at all, Hermione wordlessly turned and made her way to the door. She did nothing to attract attention to herself, but she left in her wake a trail of students and teachers alike who looked from her to Ron in puzzlement.

"What're you looking at?" he growled irritably at them, causing more than one head to whip away. Finding that he had indeed lost his appetite, Ron stood and shouldered his way out of the room. He had somewhere to be, anyway.

**VV**

By the time he reached the house, he'd bounced back from his momentary lapse of contrition into ire again.

What the hell was Hermione's problem, anyway? Besides the obvious, of course. She was always badgering him for not being more sensitive; the insinuation inherent in that claim being, naturally, that _she_ was. And it was true, he could admit, that she was of a much more subtle persuasion than he. But her intuition had certainly been off, today.

Hadn't she been able to tell that he just didn't want her to be hurt any more? He'd been able to do precious little to shield her from the horrors of the past eight months; all he was trying to do was save her from fresh ones. Was that so wrong of him?

And the nerve of her, getting upset over him talking to Dumbledore about it! Who was the one making decisions for her friends when she went running off to tattle to McGonagall about the broom Harry got from Sirius back in third year, anyway?

Sure, it had come anonymously. And sure, at that time they'd all been under the incorrect assumption that Sirius Black had escaped Azkaban Prison specifically so that he could murder Harry. And yeah, okay, Ron supposed it was _possible_ that someone wanting to kill Harry could have placed a jinx on the Firebolt. So maybe she'd had a point. Age had brought a little maturity to Ron's hindsight, at least.

But the point was that McGonagall had taken the broom away, and that certainly hadn't been Harry's call. No, Hermione had done it to protect her friend from himself, and Ron made a self-righteous mental note to remind her of that, later.

For now, though, he had to get on with the task at hand. However unpleasant it might be. He rounded a slight bend in the path, and there it was.

As Ron approached the house, the skin on his arms broke out in gooseflesh, surprising him. Hermione had been the one most scarred by what had happened here, but he hadn't realized until just this moment how much it had effected him, as well.

He slowed down, then stopped, taking a couple deep breaths to fight off a cold shiver. He told himself that he just needed to get a little perspective before rushing in, but the truth was he needed a minute to get steady again. His pulse had spiked in anticipation of what he would find, here, and memories of the fight three days ago were clamoring for attention in his mind. He pushed them away and focused on his objective.

The house stood at the center of a small glade atop a gentle slope. Shady trees surrounded the hill, providing a sense of isolation, though Ron knew the nearest neighbor was less than half a kilometer away. It was the neighbor who'd first brought the Order's attention to the house, he remembered.

She was a witch in her nineties, who said she didn't get out much any more. Members of the wizarding family who lived in the house on the hill had gotten in the habit of dropping by every other day or so to see if she needed anything from town, or any work done on her property. When three days in a row had passed with no visit, the kind old lady had become worried. She'd thought she heard some strange sounds echoing through the trees in that direction. These days you can't be too careful, she'd said, what with Death Eaters roaming around on You-Know-Who's command.

Someone in the upper echelons of the Order had agreed, and Ron, Harry and Hermione had pulled the mission. It sounded simple enough on parchment…apparate to the house just to check that everything was all right, but proceed with caution just in case it wasn't.

In fact, they'd disapparated right about here, at the base of the grade. The house was a focal point up on its hill, immediately drawing their attention. Looking at it now, Ron thought that it reminded him a little of the Burrow. Its construction was a bit rough, containing a hodgepodge of architectural styles. It wasn't quite as 'thrown together' as the Burrow looked, but Ron could glimpse the occasional turret jutting out, and wondered why the similarity hadn't occurred to him when last he'd been here.

_Probably because you had enough on your mind already,_ he mused, _or thought you did_.

Ron had a hard time remembering just what he _had_ been thinking of, three days ago. Before the horrifying events in the cellar of that house. Before Hermione was so traumatized that she suffered from nightmares. Before, when his best friend wasn't missing, maybe dead.

It was probably something about Hermione, he thought wryly. Merlin knew she was on his mind more often than not. But three days ago, all he'd really had to worry about was his lack of courage in regards to telling her how he felt. He kept meaning to, he really did. He wanted to.

He was at the point where he'd felt this way for so long that he couldn't stand it any more. He'd loved her for far longer than he'd even been aware of it. When it finally hit him at the end of sixth year, it hit hard. He'd spent all summer and most of the beginning of seventh year agonizing over his feelings before finally realizing that he needed to tell her so that he could move on, in one form or another. Even if she didn't feel the same way, and shot him down, at least then he'd _know_, and could stop obsessing over it. The problem was the whole 'getting shot down' possibility.

Because he really, really wanted her to feel the same way.

But then Hermione's parents had been murdered, and the war started. They'd been uprooted from their home-away-from-home, and everything changed overnight. Ron had never felt that it was the right time, and he secretly worried that there would never _be_ a right time. There was always the next mission. There was always something more urgent occupying them. And now Harry was missing.

A fact that wasn't going to remedy itself, he thought. It was time to stop reflecting on the past, and do something about it.

He shook his head, took a deep breath, and started up the hill.

When he'd climbed it three days ago with his friends, he'd been struck – as he was now – by the shroud of silence that cloaked the clearing. Then, as now, he'd felt the hairs on his arms and on the back of his neck stand up. It was sort of the feeling he got whenever one of the ghosts at Hogwarts accidentally – or on purpose, in Peeves's case – flew through him. As though something otherworldly had happened here.

He supposed it was possible. There'd been no clear signs to say exactly what fate had befallen the witch and wizard of the house. Even after finding the children, after fighting the Death Eaters, the whereabouts of the parents had remained a mystery.

Ron was met at the top of the slope by the patchy, decimated lawn. There were great gaping holes in the ground from blasts of magic that had missed their mark, and he stepped around a single tree with low-slung branches as he headed toward the front door. Before he even reached the porch he could see the dried pools of blood there, tracking out from inside the house.

That would have been Harry's doing, he knew. His friend had led the threat out, away from Hermione and Ron in the cellar below, and Ron had to pause again to collect himself. He looked out over the view available from the house's location, procrastinating. He'd have to examine the yard. But before he could give it the attention it deserved, he had to make sure he was alone.

The weather in England being what it was, there'd been enough rainfall over the past three days to wash away the blood that had drenched the lawn. What he would find inside the house was a different matter altogether, and he was not looking forward to it. But Harry would have done absolutely no less for him, and so Ron turned without another thought and eased the front door open.

It came to rest against the inside wall, and Ron stood cautiously in the threshold for a moment, observing. Directly across from the open doorway he was confronted by a staircase leading up to the second level. To his right was the parlor, and the door on the opposite side of that room led to the kitchen. The door to the cellar was in the kitchen, he knew.

A stranger to the house might have assumed that there'd been a fire here. The scorch marks that were burned into the walls and nearly every other available surface lent credibility to that conjecture. Ron knew differently. Just like he knew that reddish brown hadn't been the parlor's original color scheme.

He knew that the scorch marks had their origin in magic, and that the walls were painted a sky blue beneath all the blood.

Three days ago it had still been dripping from the ceiling and trickling down the walls as he'd led Hermione and eight children out into the open air. Silence had greeted them outside. The battle between Harry and the Death Eaters had either ended, or been moved elsewhere. In any case, it wasn't safe to stay there with the children, and so they'd gotten out of there as quickly as possible.

Later, when he and Hermione had returned alone to search for their friend, the blood was thicker, congealing. They'd been able to find no sign of what happened, but had been pressed for time and Ron had had to drag Hermione away without them learning anything about what might've happened to Harry. Ron was hoping that now he might find something they'd missed.

He decided to start from the top and work his way down, and told himself that he wasn't avoiding the cellar. Gripping his wand tightly in one fist, he made his way slowly up the stairs. His back lightly brushed the wall as he probed into the shadow at the top, unsure of what to expect, design-wise. When they'd entered the house three days ago, they had split up to cover more ground, quickly. Ron had investigated the ground floor; Harry had gone down, and Hermione had gone up.

So it was with great caution that Ron extended his wand. His whisper was a scratch in the dark. "Lumos!"

Immediately a bright, white light shone from the end of his wand, illuminating a hallway that extended in two directions. Keeping his back firmly against one wall to eliminate the chance of an assailant surprising him from behind, Ron slid along the hallway down to his left.

As quietly as possible, Ron turned the knob on the first door. It swung inward, revealing a small child's bedroom. He stepped in. The whisper of the soles of his shoes on the soft, beige carpet was the only sound. He arced the beam of light from his wand around at the walls.

His eyes swept the room, noting the toys strewn across the floor, the brightly patterned curtains. And two bunk beds. A bedroom for _several_ small children, he amended his mental account, and was once again reminded of the Burrow. This room didn't differ much from the room he'd shared with Fred, George and Ginny when they were all small children.

On the heels of that thought, he remembered that this was what Hermione would have seen.

_That's how she knew to look for the children,_ he realized belatedly. He hadn't had time to wonder, before.

Their intel report had been sketchy, and so Ron and Harry had had no idea there might be children in the house until Hermione came racing down the stairs several minutes after going up, shouting for them to start looking for a bunch of kids. Their search had ultimately led them to a small crawlspace in the cellar. Ron knew he would go down there again, before he was done, but first he had to finish up here.

He reckoned that most of the other rooms on this level would be kid rooms, and he was right. He searched quickly, but thoroughly, and then headed back down to the ground floor.

His task was easier, here, as he was already familiar with the layout of the rooms. He checked the parlor, the dining room, and the parents' bedroom again before entering the kitchen. The marks of battle were less devastating here, and Ron concluded that it was because the Death Eaters had been surprised by the ferocity of Harry's defense. Almost the very moment that they'd been attacked in the cellar, Harry had fought back, forcing them to retreat up the stairs, away from his friends and the children they'd only just discovered hiding there. The Death Eaters had begun to retaliate in the kitchen, and had really started applying themselves in the parlor. But Harry had still managed to force them outside.

Ron stood at the top of the stairs leading down into the cellar, remembering. He remembered wanting to go after Harry, wanting to help. But by then Hermione had already ripped away the flat piece of wood that had served as a makeshift door to the crawlspace, and squeezed inside.

She'd been the only one small enough to do so, and had pointed that out, moments before, when Ron objected to letting her go in alone.

"_I know they're in there, Ron,"_ he remembered her saying. "_They've been in there for three days, at least. They can't wait anymore. It may already be too late. I've got to go."_

With that, she'd stood long enough to tear her jacket off and pull out her wand. Then she'd dropped down to all fours and proceeded to shimmy into the hole. Ron and Harry had exactly one beat to share a glance before the world exploded.

At the bottom of the stairs now, Ron stood in a nearly empty room. But he didn't see it. He was lost in the memory.

_He heard a cough, then a grunt as Harry shoved himself to his feet. "Stupefy!" he heard his friend shout, and then sounds of a ruckus from the stairs. Belatedly, Ron realized that they'd been attacked. Their assailants came in the form of five Death Eaters, and all but one stood on the stairs that led to the kitchen. The fifth had collapsed after being hit by Harry's spell._

_Ron shook his head groggily, one elbow bearing the weight of his torso as he tried to pick himself up off the floor. The dust in the cellar was thick after the Death Eaters' blast. He looked up to see Harry standing in front of him, his wand aimed at the men in black robes and masks._

_His glasses were askew, and his hair and robes were in violent disarray, but he stood tall and defiant as he faced the menace. Raw power seemed to swell and surge in the air around him as he pointed his wand again. "Electrificus!" he shouted._

_What looked like a bolt of lightening shot out of the tip of his wand, striking one of the Death Eaters square in the chest. The man flew backward, slamming into one of his fellows. The unfortunate second man was caught between his airborne comrade and the wall, and both fell to the floor, dazed from the impact._

_Harry didn't pause to take in the results of his actions. He charged forward, casting more spells as quickly as he could say them. The Death Eaters were clearly taken by surprise. They managed to block most of Harry's charms, but they'd been put on the defensive, and were forced to retreat upstairs as Harry advanced. Ron moved to follow, but Harry's green eyes burned at him from the stairs._

"_Stay!" Harry commanded as he got to the top. "Help Hermione!"_

_Ron clenched his fists, but turned back to the crawlspace. Hermione was just emerging, half carrying, half dragging a small body with her. Ron saw that it was a little girl, around three or four years old. She looked thin, and her cries were weak as she struggled to get away. Hermione shoved the little girl at him, panting. She seemed to be oblivious to the tears streaming down her face. _

"_Oh God, Ron…there are so many of them. And they scattered when they saw me. They're terrified and won't come to me. How are we ever going to get them all out?!"_

"_Hermione," he started, but she had already pressed herself back through the small gap in the wall. He could faintly hear her pleading with the children to come to her, promising she wouldn't hurt them. There was an edge of hysteria in her voice, and he tried not to think about what kind of hell she was facing, in there. _

_He felt frustrated, helpless. He heard crashes and cursing from the rooms above, and estimated that Harry and the Death Eaters were near the front door. He couldn't do this. He couldn't just sit here and let Harry face them all alone. He rose in one fluid movement, yanking his wand out. At his feet, the little girl started crawling madly toward the crawlspace, hiccuping with the force of her sobs. _

_Ron leaped after her, snatching her up just before she reached the opening. He cursed and spun around, holding her away from him. She kicked and screamed as if his touch seared her. _

"_Gotcha," he heard behind him, and then Hermione's panting grew more audible as she made her way back to her side of the entrance. Ron shoved his wand back in his pocket and transferred the little girl to that hand, freeing his other to take the next struggling child from his friend. _

_This one was older, about seven, and a boy. He punched blindly at Hermione, who stoically suffered the blows until Ron hauled him away by the back of the neck. When she met his eyes, he saw that her own were haunted. He opened his mouth to question her, but she backed away, disappearing once more into the crawlspace. _

_Ron was left holding two yowling children. They were so loud they drowned out the sounds of fighting overhead. Ron panicked. As long as there was fighting, he knew Harry was alive. He had to be able to hear. _

_In a desperate attempt to silence the children, he thrust them together in the corner. The young boy immediately wrapped an arm around his little sister and glared up at Ron defiantly. Ron fought the urge to glare back. It wasn't these kids' fault that their family had been targeted by Voldemort. It wasn't their fault that Harry was fighting the battle alone, or that he himself felt impotent to help. It wasn't their fault that Hermione was flirting with madness in order to save them._

_But she was. That's what he'd seen in her eyes, he realized now. Whatever was inside that tight space, it was eating away at her sanity. _

_In the sudden silence he could hear the harsh sound of her breath, and scrabbling sounds from behind the walls as the children inside continued to evade her. It was a distinctly eerie sound, and Ron felt a shameful tug of desire to just get Hermione and go. They could take the children they had already, and go help Harry. Once they were out of here, they could send help back to get the others._

_Then Hermione dragged herself into the cellar again, her face smeared with dirt and tears. Her eyes were red rimmed, and her hair was a nightmare, frizzed to the max and filled with dirt and cobwebs and sawdust. Her face was a mask of horror, and Ron knew it matched his own when he saw what she carried._

_This one was also a little boy, maybe a year old. He lay limply in Hermione's arms, his head thrown back in unconsciousness. Light, fine blonde hair dusted the top of his head; the long lashes that rested atop his cheeks were a shade darker. His pudgy toddler's arms and legs dangled lifelessly, pulled down by gravity. He was so pale he appeared bloodless. _

_Not unconscious, Ron realized as the scent of decay filled his nostrils. Dead. _

_Hermione staggered forward, nearly making it to him before her legs gave out. She dropped to her knees with bone jarring force, but continued to cradle the dead infant, as if trying to cushion him from harm. _

_Ron cast a quick glance at the two kids in the corner, making sure they were still there. They continued to huddle together. He crouched in front of Hermione, reaching out to her. _

"_I'm sorry," he heard her whisper. "I'm so sorry I wasn't in time to save you."_

_Ron felt his own eyes sting as Hermione sniffed, failing in her attempt to hold back the tears. Then she very gently laid the body down. "I'm sorry," she said again, "but I can't help you, now. We've got to save the ones we can."_

_Ron watched her, sharing in her grief. He watched as she pulled herself together, because there was no choice. She sobbed, but never hesitated before plunging back into the blackness._

He rubbed a hand over his face, trying to scrub away the memory and failing. It reminded him of the night the Death Eaters had attacked Hogwarts, and how his recollection of those events would forever be locked away in his brain.

He'd never forget the way Hermione had looked, infused with that unbearable sorrow, and then putting it away. She'd had to, to do what needed to be done. Even as he'd carefully moved the body, covered it, he felt himself tumble that last little bit in love with her. He'd watched her face that darkness alone, over and over again, and knew for sure then that no one else could ever be to him what Hermione was. No one else would ever measure up.

By the time she'd emerged with the last child, sounds of the battle overhead had reached epic proportions. Ron had had his hands full minding the eight (eight, for Merlin's sake!) live children Hermione'd hauled out of purgatory with her. She was weary to the bone, and he could see it. "_Hermione, come on!" _he remembered shouting._ "There can't be any more. Let's go!"_

"_I can't,"_ she'd cried. _"What if there are more? It'll kill me if we don't get them all!"_

Needing to be sure, she'd thrown herself once more into the abyss.

But that _had_ been all of them, Ron remembered, except for the one they hadn't been in time to save. And by the time he and Hermione had led them upstairs and to the front door, the sounds of the conflict outside had ceased.

He dully looked around the now-empty room. Dumbledore must have sent someone after receiving their owl, because the child's corpse had been removed. The stench of death, however, remained.

He'd had enough. He hadn't come here to remember, anyway. He'd come to find answers, and he wouldn't find them down here.

Ron mounted the stairs that led to the kitchen, and closed the cellar door firmly behind him. Now that he knew he was alone at the house, he could devote his attention to the signs of combat outside.

He made his way one last time through the grisly living room, and inhaled a deep breath of fresh air outside. Rain clouds were threatening overhead and dusk was about an hour off, so he knew he must be quick. He'd lost a lot of time using the Floo network to get to a safe enough distance from the mansion before he could apparate here, and he'd lose more getting back.

He spared a brief thought for Hermione…wondering what she was doing right now, and hoping that she wouldn't be too angry with him when he returned. Even more, he hoped that by then he'd have some answers for her.

Seeking those answers, Ron gave his attention to the marks of battle on the lawn. There were scores of deep cuts upon it where slices of the ground had been obliterated. They looked like wounds upon the earth. He crouched down beside one. A small pool of water had collected at the bottom from rainfall, but he could still determine from the slopes of the hole what angle the blast had penetrated from. He looked up, trying to place the origin of the magic and envision what had happened, here.

There were dozens of gashes of this sort scattered all across the lawn, and he decided that the greatest concentration of them would be where Harry was standing. He'd had five Death Eaters dueling him at once, after all. And that would explain why the opposite side of the yard contained far fewer blemishes. One person could only throw so much magic.

Ron clenched his eyes shut. _Don't think about it. You can't help Harry by blaming yourself for not being up here with him. Help him by figuring out what happened._

The only problem was the distressing lack of evidence. Ron moved to stand amid a cluster of gouges, where Harry must have been standing. He looked around, but saw nothing new from this vantage point. He noted that the one tree dotting the lawn hadn't escaped the bursts of magic flying back and forth across the yard, either. A large smudge of black on one side of the tree indicated a blast gone awry. The bark had been scorched away; some still lay charred at the base of the trunk.

Ron looked harder. There was something else there, half-buried beneath the cinders. Something red. He kicked into a jog as he started over toward it.

He was halfway to the tree when suddenly the air around him took on the distinctive, familiar feeling of atmosphere being displaced. There was an instant of stifling suction that abruptly released when the glade depressurized, and then a loud POP! as someone disapparated directly in front of him.

Not just someone.

A Death Eater.


	4. Chapter 4

Ron had been playing chess for years. And not only did he play it, he'd been the undisputed champion of Hogwarts. So he knew all about strategy, and how vital it was to gain the upper hand.

In the split second between the Death Eater's arrival, and the moment the dark figure registered awareness of Ron barreling at him, several different options raced through Ron's mind. Without any conscious thought he picked one and implemented it.

Sometimes, the best defense really _was_ offense, and Ron utilized that strategy now. There was no time to pull out his wand. But instead of stopping or recoiling with shock, he picked up his speed and dipped his shoulder. His tackle took the surprised Death Eater in the stomach, and they both traveled several feet before landing on the soft grass.

A short scuffle ensued. Ron had a much more difficult time of gaining control than he'd expected, due to the portly nature of his enemy. He was nearly pinned by the Death Eater's weight alone, a couple times, before he managed to slip out from under him.

Then he was on top. He knew he should take out his wand and press his advantage, but anger suddenly flooded through him as though released from a dam. This was a Death Eater. Maybe one of the ones who'd done something to Harry. Instinct jostled with prudence, and Ron gave in to his temper by smashing his fist into the other man's face. He figured it had to be a man behind the mask from the height he'd possessed while standing, from the feel of (very well padded) muscles coiling against him, and from the masculine timbre of his voice when he said, quite clearly, "Gah!"

Ron took vicious satisfaction from the sound, barely registering the sharp, sudden pain in his hand. Somewhere in the back of his mind he realized that his punch had cracked his opponent's porcelain mask. Now blood dripped from the laceration across his own knuckles, matching the stream of red that trickled out from under the Death Eater's black mask. It galvanized him. Showing no regard for his own injury, he punched the same spot again. His reward was another cry of protest from the man on the ground.

The Death Eater was clearly not loving this turn of events. He rolled from side to side, and Ron wasn't sure if he was attempting to dodge any more blows that might be raining down upon him, or if he was simply too rotund to get up, otherwise. He resembled a tortoise turned upside down on its shell, craning and straining to right itself.

The image was so ludicrous that after a moment Ron sat back on his heels and watched, increasingly disbelieving, as the fallen man struggled to upright himself.

"Are you kidding me?" Ron said. It wasn't really intended as a serious question, but rather a perplexed response to the man's comical actions.

He'd faced enough Death Eaters to know that they lived up to their reputation. They were mean, fast, and brutal. This bloke might be mean, but it was hard to tell under all of the layers of soft flesh and the snuffling sound he made as he tried to staunch the flow of blood from under the mask.

"You broke by dose!" he blubbered. He held one slick red hand out as evidence, his demeanor outraged and accusing.

Ron's face was a picture of confoundment. His eyebrows had shot right up into his hair, his mouth was gaping open, and his blue eyes were wide with unrepressed incredulity. "What kind of Death Eater _are_ you, anyway?" he demanded.

The Death Eater didn't respond. He was too busy endeavoring to breathe. Apparently finding the mask too much of a hindrance, he reached up and ripped it off, leaning over and gasping for air through his mouth.

Ron reckoned that if his eyes got any bigger they'd pop right out of his skull, but he couldn't believe what he was seeing.

"Crabbe?" he managed to croak out.

For indeed, it was none other than one of the former menaces of Hogwarts who stood before him, bleeding profusely from the nose. He rather priggishly tilted his head back, attempting to stop the flow of blood by pinching his nostrils shut.

Ron looked around quickly. He half expected to see Malfoy and Goyle materialize at any moment. One had rarely been seen without the others back in their school days. Much, he imagined, as he, Harry and Hermione had been.

The lawn remained empty save for the two of them, however, and Ron warily returned his attention to his rival. Now that the heat of the moment had passed, clearer thinking returned to him and he pulled out his wand. Struggling to keep his anger under wraps, he aimed his wand at Crabbe. "What are you doing here?"

Crabbe hadn't changed much over the past eight months. He was rather short for a young man of their age, and still quite round. His close-cropped hair only emphasized the size of the ears that protruded on either side of his head, and his beady little eyes stared dully back at Ron. "You broke by dose!" he insisted.

Ron rolled his eyes. "And you're a Death Eater. Your crime outweighs mine, I'd say. How'd _you_ get to be one, anyway? You're not clever enough to've managed it on your own. Still trailing after Malfoy, I'd wager."

Crabbe's only response was a baleful glare.

"Where's Harry?" Ron asked next. He didn't really expect an honest answer to that question, and so he wasn't disappointed when Crabbe merely folded his arms and continued his silent defiance. He watched him carefully, however, and noted a blink of consternation. What did that mean? Crabbe didn't know where Harry was either? If that were true, then it lent credence to Dumbledore's supposition that Harry was still alive.

Ron circled Crabbe slowly. "The Death Eaters here three days ago…was that you lot? And maybe a couple more of your mentally deficient friends for backup?"

"I'b dot tedding you adythingk," Crabbe said sullenly.

All traces of sarcasm gone now, Ron took a couple steps closer to Crabbe, pointing his wand directly at the other boy's face. "No one's ever accused you of being intelligent, you know. But I hope you're not thick enough to test my patience right now," he said chillingly. He leaned in close and allowed some of the cold anger burning within him to show around the edges. He kept his voice low and threatening. "You have no idea how close I am. If you don't want to find out, I suggest you answer my questions."

He was pleased to see a glint of trepidation creep into Crabbe's eyes. "Now," he said again, "Was that you three here the other day, fighting with Harry?"

Crabbed glowered at him. "We didn't doe Potter would be here. Or you, or duh budblood."

Ron grabbed a fist full of Crabbe's robes and shoved him against the tree, thrusting his head forward so they were face to face. "What did I tell you about testing me?" he gritted out. "You call her that again, and I'll make you regret the day you were born."

A little shaken by the ugly violence coiled apparently just beneath the surface, Ron stepped back and released the other boy. The fear in Crabbe's eyes had intensified, and to Ron's surprise he felt a little nugget of shame burrow into his heart. He didn't like it, and tried to lower the level of intimidation that charged the air between them. "Of course, if I looked like you, I'd regret being born every day of my life, anyway," he tossed off.

The barb made him feel better. Perversely, Crabbe appeared to feel better too.

Relieved to be back on familiar ground, Ron resumed his interrogation. "So it _was_ you. Come back to finish the job, did you?"

"We weren't part of the original bission," Crabbe sulked. "We just came back to get - "

He broke off suddenly, and his gaze dropped down to his right for a moment. Then it flitted back up to rest somewhere over Ron's shoulder. It appeared very much as if he'd remembered at the last second not to look at something.

Ron abruptly remembered the flash of red he'd glimpsed at the base of the tree. He narrowed his eyes. "What are you after?" he demanded. Keeping his wand steady in its aim, he crouched slowly.

Ron reached one hand out blindly, feeling around at the base of the tree, never taking his eyes off his captive. His groping fingers fumbled over ash and bits of charred tree bark, then encountered something smooth and hard. He closed his hand around it and rose again, stepping several feet away to discourage any sudden show of spine on Crabbe's part. Only then did he examine his prize.

As far as he could tell, it was some sort of amulet. It was marginally larger in diameter than a fifty pence piece; the perfect crimson circle looked like a dark pool of blood in the palm of his hand. In fact, it was so dark that Ron wasn't sure if he held a stone or a jewel. Near one edge there was a small hole, and he thought that maybe it was meant to be worn on a chain or cord around someone's neck. He tilted his hand back and forth, and watched as the reflective surface of the amulet seemed to shimmer with a light of its own under the dying sun.

Looking closer, he could just make out some writing etched into the surface near the edges. They were strange markings, punctuated by symbols he'd never seen before.

Sudden excitement gripped him. This was it! This was what he'd come looking for! A clue as to where Harry might be. He had to get back to the mansion and see what –

"Gib dat back!" Crabbe shouted, surging forward. He snatched at the amulet.

Ron closed his fingers around it tightly, yanking his fist away from Crabbe's outstretched hand. The other boy's pudgy digits swished through the air inches too short of their target.

"Right," Ron rolled his eyes, "like you had a chance."

He hesitated, debating. He really didn't like the idea of letting Crabbe go so that he could cause more mischief. But his mission here today was to find something that might lead them to Harry, not to detain a bumbling Death Eater who was more of a danger to himself than to others…unless those others happened to be wearing suits made of treacle tarts.

No, Ron had no use for Crabbe, now. His priority was to get back to the mansion and let the professors get a crack at translating the writing on the amulet. Reluctantly, he lowered his wand slightly. It was still aimed in Crabbe's general direction, but no longer so that any blast of magic would take the other boy through the brain.

"Go on," he said. "Clear off."

Crabbe's ponderous brows drew down in confusion.

Ron sighed. This was like trying to convince the dog trailing after you to go home. "I don't have the time to deal with you right now, Crabbe. But if you don't shove off, I may change my mind."

Ron stepped closer. "And if I find out you had anything to do with Harry's disappearance, and you're just not telling me…you can be sure I'll find you again."

Crabbe uneasily watched him step back, and then slowly pulled out his wand. He disapparated with a sneer, leaving Ron alone atop the hill.

**VV**

Night had fully fallen by the time Ron made it back. Upon returning to the mansion, he set out to find Hermione. He knew he should take the amulet to Dumbledore straight away, but it couldn't hurt to let his freakishly brilliant friend have a look at it first, could it? She was bound to have some ideas. If nothing else, it might brighten her up; Ron would do just about anything to take away the hopelessness in her eyes.

Eager to share the find with her, Ron mounted the stairs two at a time until he reached the second floor landing, where he encountered the two most deviant members of his family.

Inseparable as always, Fred and George staggered under the weight of two huge burlap sacks, which Ron could only assume contained supplies for their next deadly prank.

Employing the word 'deadly' to describe the twins' devious inventions was no longer an exaggeration. The whole while the brink of war had loomed closer on the horizon, Dumbledore had been looking ahead…and he was not a man to waste ability when he saw it.

Just before the attack on Hogwarts eight months ago he'd proposed a contract with the founders of Weasley's Wizard Wheezes. The deal was this: he would aid them in their research, allow them unlimited access to raw materials, supplies, and workspace, and be conveniently looking the other way whenever one of their experiments went awry. In return, they would – for the duration of the war – dedicate at least half their time and energy to creating 'pranks' of a more sinister nature.

At first, Fred and George – not to mention Molly Weasley – had been dubious about the idea. But ever since the attack on Hogwarts, they'd applied themselves with a fierce determination and fanatical glee, and found that they were quite good at the darker side of mischief making. More than a few of Voldemort's minions had fallen prey to Weasley Whipping Wands, and that was only _one_ of the more successful products. They discovered that their talent for destruction was abundant, indeed…much to the lament of Death Eaters everywhere.

Whatever they were carrying in the burlap sacks, Ron knew it meant certain misfortune for the bad guys, and he grinned with anticipation.

"Hullo George. Fred," he greeted them. "Working on a new way to bring doom to the enemy?"

"As always, dear brother," Fred replied jovially, "as always."

"Witness the fruit of our genius," George invited. He dropped the sack from his shoulder and rooted around within it for a moment before retrieving a pair of thick worker's gloves. He pulled them on, snapping imaginary latex with a wicked grin before delving back into the bag.

The next item he pulled out was tiny, cute and furry. Ron wasn't what he would consider to be well versed in the area of dog breeds, but he believed this might be called a teacup poodle. It was a miniscule thing, and it sat in George's gloved hand delicately quivering the way small, nervous dogs tend to. It looked up at him with big brown eyes.

Ron frowned, unclear on how this innocuous puppy was supposed to help the Order, and experiencing a vague sort of bad feeling in his stomach at the thought of something so innocent being used as a tool in war. He reached out a hand to give it a scratch behind the ears, but George smacked at him with his free hand before he made contact. "Uh uh uh," he tsked. "You don't want to go petting this little pooch, my most dimwitted of siblings."

"He's always been this way," Fred said sadly. "You'd think he'd have learned his lesson by now. Since when does anything we make actually function the way it looks?"

George shook his head in identical sorrow. Then he brightened when a young boy of about twelve came up the stairs and joined them on the landing. "Hey you. Second year, right?"

The boy looked surprised at having been addressed, but bravely answered the question. "Ye…yes, sir."

"Want to earn a galleon?" Fred asked.

The boy's eyes – fixed on the puppy – grew large and round. With obvious hopes of being asked to walk the dog, he nodded vigorously.

"All right, then," George said, "catch."

He chucked the poodle at the second year, who made a startled move as if to catch it. He never got the chance.

Ron's jaw had dropped when George tossed the puppy at the boy, but what happened next was beyond anything he'd ever expected.

In mid-air the puppy changed…twisting and morphing into something else entirely. In flight, it resembled nothing so much as a large wad of used chewing gum, and by the time it reached the astonished second year it had grown to about the size of a full-sized man. When it hit the boy it stretched, somehow pulling itself around to envelope him completely. Within seconds the unfortunate lad was completely cocooned and making faint cries of distress. Through the translucent membrane Ron could see the boy's fists ineffectually pummeling at the inside wall.

"We call them Hush-Puppies," Fred said proudly.

"Observe," George added, pointing to the struggling boy as a reference. "The victim is completely unharmed. He has an unlimited supply of air, because the membrane is semi-porous. He is, however, rendered absolutely helpless - "

"And silent!" Fred interjected.

"_And _silent, thank you Fred, so that he, she, or it cannot cast any more spells or warn other Death Eaters of the Order's presence."

"We almost called them 'Bowwow Bombs', but 'Hush Puppy' is just so cute," Fred added.

Ron watched the writhing pillar uneasily. "So the puppy is…"

"Not really a puppy, of course," George said. "It's an illusion, and a brilliant one, I might add. That was Dumbledore's input. This way they don't even have to be lobbed like grenades. You can just leave them sitting around like land mines. Then as soon as a Death Eater touches it - "

"Because really, who could resist a puppy?" Fred asked.

George continued seamlessly, " – he's a goner. And if someone on our side touches one, it's not fatal. You know, Fred, I think this is some of our best work, yet."

"I quite agree," Fred replied.

Mentally swearing to never again pet stray dogs, Ron tore his eyes away from the poor boy locked up inside the Hush Puppy. "Well that's…interesting. Good work, you two."

Fred and George puffed up like toads, proudly thrusting their chests out in unison. Ron looked from one to the other. "Riiiight. Well anyway, I'm just back from the house…"

"Oh yes," Fred said attentively. "We heard you were going back there to look for clues as to where…well, to look for clues."

"Did you find anything?" George asked.

Ron wryly realized Hermione had been right. Even Fred and George were hesitant to say Harry's name. It was almost superstitious in nature, as if they thought by mentioning him they'd jinx his safe return. It was also sort of annoying.

"I did," he finally said. "And I want to run it by Hermione before I take it to Professor Dumbledore. Have you seen her?"

He was perplexed when the twins shared an assessing glance before turning back to him.

"Hm…yes, well…" George said.

"She was outside earlier, wasn't she?" Fred asked his counterpart.

"Yes!" George said excitedly, latching on to Fred's question like a life preserver. "You're absolutely right; she was."

"But…she's not anymore?" Ron asked hesitantly.

Fred absentmindedly shoved the Hush Puppy containing the boy aside when it squirmed too close. "Er, well, no," he admitted.

Ron was starting to lose his patience. It had been a long day, and Fred and George's suddenly furtive behavior wasn't really making it any shorter. "So where is she now?"

His brothers exchanged another odd look, and Ron's unease returned in the form of a jumpy feeling in his stomach. "What is it?" he demanded. "What don't you want to tell me? Is she okay?"

"She's fine," Fred placated him. "Honestly. It's just that…well…"

He looked to his twin for help, and George sighed before addressing Ron. "It's just that you're not going to be happy when we tell you."

"When you tell me what?" Ron wanted to know, expecting news of some sort of disaster.

Fred cringed a little, in anticipation. "When we tell you who she spent the day with."


	5. Chapter 5

She sensed his presence behind her; Ron pushed his anger before him like an ominous wave.

He must've already heard, somehow. Hermione sighed and turned to meet him head-on for the inevitable argument.

She'd known what she was in for the instant Viktor Krum had arrived. Ron had never approved of her friendship with the former Bulgarian Seeker. But not only would it have been rude to turn down Viktor's invitation to spend the day with him just because of Ron's issues, a small part of her _wanted_ to do something that would irritate Ron, after the way he'd brushed her off this morning.

Well, she would pay for it now, she thought.

When she turned around, she saw him stalking toward her. His jerky body language confirmed the dark state of his mind, and Hermione futilely hoped the presence of bystanders in the foyer would curb any outbursts.

Ron stopped in front of her. "Hermione," he greeted her formally, and she groaned inwardly. So much for wishful thinking.

"Guess what I just heard?" he asked her pointedly.

Hermione turned back to the table at which she'd been working.

Since that morning several tables had been shoved against the far wall of the foyer, and there were numerous clipboards and papers strewn across its surface. It might not look like it to an outsider, but there was a sense of order, here.

After Ron left that morning, but before Viktor arrived, Hermione had gone looking for something to do. She'd finally located Professor McGonagall, who assigned her the job of reorganizing the dormitory situation. Since there were departures and new arrivals every day, it was often difficult to keep track of everyone and make sure there was enough room.

Hermione had thrown herself into the task, dividing the mansion residents into those who stayed there permanently, those who were just passing through on their way to the next mission, and those who were there indefinitely. Using this method – once she'd come back inside from being with Viktor – she'd managed to find separate rooms for everyone in the lattermost category…including Ron and herself.

She'd experienced a twinge over that earlier, a little regretful that her excuse to sleep next to him was gone. But now she was glad, if he was going to deliberately provoke her like this.

She decided not to give him the satisfaction, and pretended obliviousness while she finished organizing her clipboards. "I can't begin to imagine."

"You bloody well can!" Ron insisted.

Hermione kept her tone mild and vaguely chiding, knowing full well that it would agitate him. "Language, Ron."

"To hell with my language!" he exclaimed. "What were you thinking, spending all day with Viktor Krum?"

"What was I thinking?" Hermione repeated. Suddenly it seemed very warm in the foyer, and she felt her vow not to indulge him in a row begin to slip away. It was like watching an auto accident in slow-motion; she knew what was coming, but was helpless to prevent it. "I was _thinking_ that my best friend had just left me behind. I was thinking of how alone I felt, and then Viktor came. And I was thinking that I could really use a break."

"Gave you one, did he?" Ron snarled. "Everything's all better now?"

"As a matter of fact, yes," Hermione replied, regaining her calm, even tone. "Why didn't you ever tell me how relaxing flying could be?"

Ron's eyebrows went up. "You flew?"

"I took the class first year, same as you. I _do_ know how, you know. And Viktor asked me to help him teach some children how to use their brooms today."

"But…you don't like to fly!" Ron persisted.

"Well, it's just never been my strong suit, is all. I was always too preoccupied with schoolwork. But Viktor tutored me a bit on his broom until I felt confident enough to teach." She tilted her head slightly, looking past him at the memory of her flight. "We went up so high…everything from up there seems so small. It's really fascinating, the sense of perspective you gain."

Ron apparently didn't care much for perspective. He was still stuck on the part where Hermione was riding around on a broom with Viktor Krum. His fists and jaw clenched. "You never let _me_ help you learn to fly!" he accused her.

"You never offered!"

"I didn't think you'd be interested!"

"Well it just goes to show how well you know me, then."

Until that moment, there hadn't been anything extraordinary about this argument to differentiate it from any other they'd ever had. But as the meaning of her last sentence sunk in, Ron recoiled as if struck. His already pale skin turned ashen. "What are you saying…you think he knows you better than I do?"

Hermione felt tears sting her eyes, but she furiously blinked them away. "I don't know, Ron. Maybe he does. All I know is that he doesn't fight with me all the time. I know he seems to genuinely care what I think, and respects my decisions. And I know he doesn't underestimate my abilities."

"Underesti…what are you talking about?"

But Hermione was beyond hearing. Suddenly all she could think about was the way Ron had refused to let her go with him that morning. The way he hadn't trusted her to surmount her fears and help find Harry. The way he'd abandoned her.

And this ridiculous animosity toward Viktor! They weren't on opposite sides, anymore. He could no longer claim that she was fraternizing with the enemy. This was no Tri-Wizard tournament they were playing. This was war. The real enemies wore masks and dark robes, and they tried to kill you. What possible excuse could Ron have, now? At one time she'd secretly hoped that maybe his dislike of Viktor was spawned by jealousy over her, but that had ultimately proved to be yet more useless wishful thinking.

No, the truth was that he just didn't care about her the way she wanted him to. That was the only explanation, and it broke her heart.

"Nothing," she choked out. "It doesn't matter."

Ron looked as if he believed very much otherwise. "But Hermione - "

"What did you find at the house?" Hermione interrupted. "Anything?"

"Yeah," Ron mumbled, surprised into changing the subject. He looked down at something he held in his hand. "An amulet or something, out on the lawn. I need to take it to Dumbledore, but I…I thought maybe you'd like to see it, first."

Swallowing her tears before they could embarrass her further, Hermione nodded. "I would. Thank you."

She took the small red disk from him, turning slightly so that she could examine it more closely in the light. Noting the markings along the edge, she traced them with her fingertips. Somewhere deep within the recesses of her mind, something stirred. A spark of recognition. "I've seen these markings before…" she whispered.

Anger forgotten for the moment, Ron stepped closer. "You have? Where?"

"I'm not certain. It's been a long time, but I'm sure I've…" She broke off and looked up at him. "The point is, you found something. You know what this means, don't you?"

Ron stared down at her, blinking in confusion as she turned away to collect a piece of parchment and pencil. He watched as she made an etching of the markings. "It means we've got a chance of finding him," Hermione told him as she examined the parchment to make sure the images were clear. "It's not completely out of our hands, now. We've got something to go on."

She managed a fragile smile, and held out the amulet. Ron reached out to take it from her, and she looked down when his fingers brushed hers. It was then that she saw the laceration across his knuckles.

Hermione frowned. "What happened to your hand?"

Ron pocketed the amulet, then splayed his fingers wide and examined the back of his hand. "Oh. Nothing. Just a little scuffle at the house."

Icy fear gripped Hermione's heart. "Scuffle? What do you mean…you were attacked? Was it a Death Eater?"

"Well yeah," Ron said easily, "but - "

"A Death Eater attacked you?"!" Hermione asked. Her voice sounded shrill even to her own ears, but she couldn't stop it. "And you didn't see fit to mention it to me until just now?!"

"It was just - "

"I should have been there," Hermione ranted. She paced away from him, then back again. "I never should have let you go alone. You could have been killed!"

"Hermione," Ron tried again, "it really wasn't that big of a deal."

"Not that big of a deal?" Hermione asked incredulously. "Three days ago our best friend was attacked by Death Eaters, and we may never see him again. Now you're telling me you were attacked by a Death Eater today…you, the only person I have left…and it's not a big deal?"

Ron opened his mouth to speak, but couldn't seem to summon the right words to say to her. Obviously, he hadn't thought of it that way.

Hermione closed her eyes, breaking their gaze, trying to get a grip on herself. He was back, and he was all right. That was all that mattered.

They were both abruptly distracted when the mansion's front doors slammed open, and a small group of children came rushing in like a brisk wind. They swarmed and circled around a tall, hawk-nosed young man of about twenty two.

Ron bristled again, freshly reminded of his aggravation by the source of it. Hermione seized the opportunity to escape.

She thrust another sheet of parchment into Ron's hands. "I've been working on room reassignments; here's a map to yours."

Ron looked down at the parchment, his brow furrowed. "I have a new room? Well, where are y…"

When he looked up again, she was gone.

**VV**

His room was as dark as a cave, but that wasn't why Ron couldn't see.

It had started immediately after Fred and George told him about Viktor and Hermione…an actual red-coloured mist invading the periphery of his vision, obscuring his sight. He'd always thought 'seeing red' was just a phrase. Just a description to convey strong emotions. But he'd been wrong. It was there, and it was infuriating.

All he'd wanted to do was keep her safe, and she was upset with him about it! And while he was off looking for Harry, fighting off Death Eaters for crying out loud, she was here at the mansion flying around on a broom with Viktor bleeding Krum.

And okay…he'd been the one who said she couldn't come with him. So it was hardly her fault that she'd been at the mansion when Viktor arrived. Even though the haze of jealousy he knew that.

And yes, the Death Eater in question was Crabbe, so it wasn't exactly as if she were off cavorting around and having fun while he was locked in a life or death struggle. He'd been in no real danger…not that she'd given him the chance to tell her that!

But it was the broomstick ride with Viktor Krum he couldn't let go of, and he knew enough to realize why it bothered him so much. First of all, hello, it was Viktor Krum…the only real competition Ron had ever had for Hermione's affections. The only bloke he'd ever had to worry about losing her to.

It didn't help that he'd once been a famous, international Quidditch star. What did Ron have to contend with that?

So just the _mention_ of Viktor Krum was enough to make Ron see red…but what was really bothering him was the flying lesson. Ron had had his fair share of fantasies about Hermione, including one that involved just such a scenario. Except in his vision, _he _was the one who got to take Hermione high up above the ground, holding on to her tightly so she wouldn't be afraid. _He _was supposed to be the one to share that magic with her. Instead it had been someone else. It had been Viktor.

And it had been Viktor who'd made her feel better. Hermione had been locked in a cage of her own making ever since the events at the house, and Ron had wanted to free her from it.

While he was glad to see her acting more like herself again, it killed him that Viktor had been the one to give her that.

Ron gritted his teeth up at the unseen ceiling. He couldn't bear this. Torturing himself with thoughts of Viktor and Hermione – Merlin, he couldn't even stand to think of their names together, like that – was one thing. But he couldn't tolerate knowing she was off in her own room, still upset with him. Additionally, her belief that he underestimated her abilities was gnawing away at him. How had she come to that conclusion?

He had to find out, and it couldn't wait until morning.

After a brief jaunt down to the foyer to look up Hermione's room on the 'You Are Here' map she'd devised, Ron headed back upstairs. He absentmindedly gave the polished banister a wistful stroke as he reached the second floor landing, then paused briefly to wonder what had happened to the poor boy Fred and George's prank had ensnared. He hoped they'd given him the galleon they promised.

From there he turned to his right and followed the directions he'd copied down. He was almost there. As he walked, the hush over the mansion struck him. It was amazing, really. All of this space, all of these rooms, and still they were nearly full to capacity. Of course, much of the room available was being used for training, schooling, and war council meetings. But there were still quite a few people living here, and as far as he could tell, they were all asleep.

Just then, a wail pierced the tranquility of the evening. It was faint, but Ron could clearly tell from the pitch of it that it was a cry of distress. It sounded like it came from a room at the end of the hall he was currently walking. But that would be…

That was Hermione's room.

Ron exploded into a run, and less than a dozen strides took him to Hermione's door. He tried the knob and found it locked. "Hermione!" he called urgently.

Muffled through the barrier between them, he thought he heard her cry his name in return. Then she shouted, quite clearly, "No! Please, no!"

She was being attacked. Even as a part of him wondered how in the hell Death Eaters had found the mansion, Ron stepped away from the door. When he returned, it was with force, and at great speed.

The wood was thick and strong, but it gave beneath Ron's shoulder like paper. The door flew open and Ron staggered into the room, his head whipping back and forth, seeking an enemy in the weak light from the solitary lamp burning on the nightstand.

But as far as he could tell, there _was_ no enemy…except perhaps in Hermione's mind.

She was alone in the room, lying in her bed. Only there did Ron see any signs of a disturbance. The pillows appeared to have been flung off; they lay strewn around the room along with several books. A few more books, as well as random pieces of parchment with strange writing on them littered the bed. The sheets were tangled and twisted, ensnaring the bed's tormented occupant. Hermione was bound by them as efficiently as if by ropes, and she writhed ineffectually against them.

Ron couldn't make out most of what she was saying, but her tone was clearly anguished, and tears streamed down the sides of her head, wetting her hair.

He rushed to her, placing one knee on the bed as he reached over to grasp her shoulders. "Hermione!" he said sharply.

She jerked beneath his hands, but didn't wake. Whatever she was seeing in her dreams had a malevolent hold over her. She thrashed against him as he pulled her up. "Hermione!" he said again, shaking her. "Wake up, you're dreaming!"

He pinned her arms to her sides when she flailed at him, and called her name again. Suddenly her eyes flew open, and with a strangled gasp she went rigid in his arms. She was awake.

Ron immediately released her arms, though he couldn't bring himself to let go of her entirely. He wasn't sure who was more frightened…Hermione from the nightmare, or himself from seeing her like this. His heart raced and his head swam with dizziness in the aftermath of an adrenaline rush.

Hermione wasn't faring any better. Her chest heaved with lingering sobs, and there was a panicked look in her eyes. She looked around madly, like she didn't know where she was.

Instinct overruled any doubts about his actions, and he pulled her into his arms as he'd done that morning. Like then, she responded immediately by gripping him tightly and burying her face in his chest. She choked out his name.

He held on while she cried, absently stroking her hair and mumbling soothingly. All the while his mind was working. He'd been right not to let her come to the house with him; she'd obviously been more deeply effected by what happened there than she'd let him see. More than ever, now, he wanted to protect her.

Hoping that she wouldn't shut him out, he quietly asked her, "Is it the house?"

After a few beats of silence in which Ron wondered if she would answer, he finally felt her nod. "It's over now," he said softly against the side of her head. "We're safe."

"It's not that," she said, still not pulling away. "I keep…I keep seeing that space in the basement, and all of the children huddled there together, starving. I keep seeing that poor little boy…"

She started crying again silently. "If only I'd gotten to him earlier…"

Ron shifted her away from him so that he could look at her. "Hermione, he was dead long before we got there. It's horrible, of course, but you can't blame yourself for it. There was nothing more you could do for him. It's not your fault."

Hermione wouldn't meet his eyes, and he got the distinct impression that she didn't agree. She scrubbed both hands over her tearstained face, then covered her eyes wearily as if she could block out the dreams that way. "And sometimes," she said so quietly that he almost couldn't hear, "it's not his face at all that I see. Sometimes it's…"

Her hands slid down, and she looked at him from red-rimmed eyes for a long moment. "I'm sorry I woke you again," she said finally. Then she paused, and he could see when it hit her. "Wait a minute, how could I have woken you? Your room is halfway across the wing."

"Ah," Ron said, trying to think of a believable excuse for being where he'd been at such a late hour. He couldn't very well admit to coming here so they could finish their argument _now_. "I…couldn't sleep," he answered truthfully.

He glanced around the mangled bed, noting the few books and papers that hadn't fallen off amid Hermione's struggles. "It looks like you couldn't, either."

"I thought I'd get a head start on trying to translate the writing on the amulet you brought back," she replied. "But then I guess I fell asleep in the middle of it."

"Well," Ron said, making moves to rise, "I should let you get back to sleep."

"Oh," Hermione said dismissively, her voice overly casual. "I'm already up, now. I think I'll just get back to the translation."

"Hermione, it's barely past midnight. You can't get up for the day at midnight!"

For the first time, she looked him squarely in the eyes. "I can't sleep, Ron. I can't bear to dream again tonight."

Ron hesitated, debating his motivations for what he was about to propose. On one hand, he knew for certain that he really just wanted to make sure she rested. On the other…

_Bugger it,_ he finally decided. "Would it…would it help if I stayed? Like last night? I could wake you if you start to have another nightmare."

Hermione looked startled; she was probably as surprised by the offer as he was by having the courage to make it. Then her gaze dropped to the bedspread shyly. "I…only if you…wouldn't mind."

Mind? Not exactly. His biggest concern was that he was doing the right thing for _her_, and not just because he wanted to sleep next to her again. He tried to ignore the subtly different vibe that had sprung up between them, and told himself he was just helping her as a friend.

It didn't work so well. He self-consciously climbed into bed beside her while she collected the remaining texts and deposited them on the nightstand. She turned out the light and snuggled down underneath the covers.

Ron lay on his back, like always, but his whole left side tingled with awareness of her proximity. Without looking he knew that she was on her side, facing him. He could feel the heat from her body, and he wistfully remembered the way they'd had to sleep practically on top of each other the night before, on the too-small sofa. Here there was plenty of room, so he had no excuse to touch her.

He decided to concentrate on going to sleep, and before long his breathing deepened and he felt himself begin to drift. But before he descended fully into slumber he felt Hermione's hand sneak into his. Her voice was quiet in his ear. "What I said before…about Viktor maybe knowing me better than you? It's not true. There's no one alive who knows me better than you do, Ron."

Ron tightened his hand around hers and smiled in the dark.

**VV**

He wasn't sure how much later it was when he surfaced again, but the room was still black. He didn't move for a moment, wondering what had caught his attention enough to drag him from sleep.

Then he heard it again: a small whimper. A moment later he felt Hermione bump into him as she tried to get away from the dream. He reached out drowsily, pulling her against him.

"Ron," she breathed, burrowing into his arms.

"Shh," he answered, running a hand over her hair. "I'm here."

"Don't leave me," she pleaded, and he blinked, looking down at her. He could tell that she still slept.

"Never," he said in a fervent whisper. "I'll never leave you."


	6. Chapter 6

Ron woke to the distinctive scratch of quill writing on parchment. He identified the noise even as he lay there blind to the room…he'd been friends with one Miss Hermione Granger for far too long to not recognize the sound.

By opening one bleary eye he was able to confirm his guess. Hermione sat next to him on the wide bed, bathed in a wide ray of sunshine from the window. A large open book rested on her legs, which were crossed Indian-style beneath her. There were several sheets of parchment scattered around on the bed, all containing various snatches of text in Hermione's handwriting. She wrote on yet another that was pressed into one side of the book. Obviously she'd been at it for awhile.

He opened his other eye, making no other movement that would betray his wakeful state.

She'd already changed into a dark pair of pants and a long-sleeved jumper, though her feet were clad only in socks. Ron smiled into his pillow. It was so like her to avoid sitting on the bed with her shoes on.

He continued to watch her as she scribbled fervidly on. Her hair was unbound today; it hung down to frame her face in loose curls. The sun shining behind her had a halo effect, turning her chestnut tresses a luminescent gold. His fingers itched to run through the wavy tendrils as he had last night. He restrained himself, however, so that he could take the opportunity to just watch her for a moment. He reckoned it was only fair after yesterday morning.

His gaze rested contently on her face, which was alight with inspiration. There was almost a glow about her, and the animation in her eyes was a welcome sight. Finally, the reason for her obvious excitement dawned on him. "You've found something, haven't you?" he asked.

Hermione jumped. Ron was surprised when she uttered a little laugh at her edginess. It seemed as if he hadn't heard her laugh in ages, and he smiled broadly in frank admiration.

To his amazement Hermione turned a delicate pink and dropped her gaze. A moment later she appeared to recover, however, and she said, "You startled me. I didn't know you were awake."

"Just," Ron replied absently. He was still far too perplexed by her intriguing response to his grin. Had she actually blushed? What was that all about? Maybe the vibe he'd sensed between them last night _wasn't_ all in his head, he thought hopefully. Maybe –

"Well, you're just in time," she interrupted his train of thought. "I _have_ found something."

She eagerly scooted closer to him, a fistful of parchments in her hand. He sat up to look over her shoulder and ended up so tantalizingly close that the ends of her hair tickled his arm. He tried to concentrate on what she was showing him, he really did, but the scent of her fresh, clean skin filled his nostrils.

"I knew I'd seen these symbols before," she started. "Do you remember back in second year when Harry learned he could speak Parseltongue?"

Of course, Ron did. How could he ever forget? It was Harry's ability to speak Parseltongue that had gained them entry to the Chamber of Secrets, where Ginny languished in unconsciousness after being used by Tom Riddle to accomplish his evil deeds. Beyond that, Parseltongue was an extremely rare gift, and one usually given to Slytherins, to boot. As a Gryffindor, Harry had once again proven to be the exception.

He nodded, and Hermione went on. "Well, at the time I did some research into the language, because I thought it might help Harry. And…well, because I thought it was interesting."

Ron suppressed a smile. Of course she had.

"Anyway, I didn't find _too_ much beyond what everyone knows…_except_ for one very obscure reference to a written form. There was an excerpt of text, and that's how I recognized the symbols."

Ron frowned. "A written form of Parseltongue?"

Hermione nodded, and he knew he must look like he thought she was pulling a fast one on him. "Hermione, snakes don't read."

"Precisely!" she exclaimed, as if he'd just nailed the solution to a difficult equation. "What use would serpents have for a written language?"

"You can't write without hands," Ron agreed, unsure of where she was going with this.

"So I always wondered why there would be a written version. It made no sense. I could only assume that it was purely for reasons of documentation. But now it makes perfect sense!"

"It does?" Ron asked.

Hermione turned slightly to look over her shoulder at him, not even appearing to notice how close they were. "Who speaks Parseltongue, other than Harry?" she asked.

Ron tried to focus, finding it difficult because _he_ certainly noticed how close they were. He fought the urge to clear his throat. "Voldemort," he offered as she watched him. He gathered from her expression that she wanted him to continue, so he went further, following the chain. "Slytherins. Bad guys…Death Eaters?"

"It would be perfect for their purposes…a nearly unbreakable code that no one knows how to speak, other than them. They can communicate without fear of anyone learning their plans. Ron, probably only a very few people even know that there _is_ a written version, but that's what this is." She held up the original etching she'd done of the markings on the amulet. "It took me all morning to track down the one book that does more than allude to it."

Ron was caught up in her excitement. "You said it was a _nearly_ unbreakable code…"

"Well..." She paused, holding out her hand. "Accio book!" The book she'd left on her side of the bed flew into her arms. The loose sheet of parchment was still wedged between the pages. She pulled it out and angled it so they could both see her neat, ordered writing. "The translation's probably a little sketchy in some areas due to the limited source material, but I think it must be close."

"Ron," she said, looking up at him again with her cheeks flushed from the thrill of the intellectual hunt, "the inscription on the amulet is about a place called Captarum. It sounds like a fortress of some sort, but Voldemort must have found it and is using it as one of his bases. I found one literary reference that refers to it as 'the holding cell for the taken'. That could mean prisoners, right?"

"Hermione, you're brilliant," Ron said earnestly. "I could kiss you."

Hermione went very still; she didn't even so much as blink as she continued to look up at him. Ron cleared his throat and looked down at the parchment. Blimey, what was wrong with him? He had to get back on track quick.

_Whatever you do,_ he told himself,_ just don't look at her. _

Because with her wide, searching eyes, her excited flush and parted lips, she looked entirely too kissable just then.

"We need to take this to Dumbledore," he said to the parchment. He felt rather than saw her nod, and then the bed shifted beneath him as she slid off it. He still didn't dare to meet her eyes, so he led the way out the door.

**VV**

Several familiar faces and quite a few that were unknown to them looked up at the interruption when Hermione and Ron barged into Dumbledore's outer office.

The door swung shut behind them as they strode into the room. "Professor," Ron said urgently, "we need to speak with you."

They had come to stand before the central table, at which the former Headmaster of Hogwarts was seated. To his left and right were Professors McGonagall and Lupin, respectively. There were quite a few other tables, also, lined up along the walls of the room; each boasted two or three more magical academics and members of the Order of the Phoenix. Hermione felt their stares resting heavily upon her, and she reflexively clutched her book and parchments more tightly. "It's about the amulet Ron brought back last night," she added.

There were murmured grumblings from around the room, which subsided reluctantly when Dumbledore raised one hand in entreaty. "Please, Professors."

He looked at Hermione in silent inquiry, indicating that she should continue. For her part, Hermione was suddenly wondering if perhaps it would have been prudent to knock, first. Then Ron nudged her forward and she cleared her throat. "I apologize for the intrusion, Professor Dumbledore, but it's very important. I made an etching of the markings from the amulet Ron discovered, and have been researching what they could mean. It's Parseltongue, sir."

"There is no written form of Parseltongue," came a voice.

All faces turned as one to the speaker, a wizened old lady whose salt and pepper coloured hair was sculpted into an elaborate beehive that was perched precariously on top of her head. A solitary yellow and black striped bee buzzed around her in a lazy, circuitous flight path. "Everyone knows that." Her voice was dry and dusty, as if it hadn't been used in quite awhile, and there was a condescending air to it.

"I'm sorry Professor, but if that's the case, then everyone's wrong," Hermione said firmly.

The voices were louder this time as everyone turned to mutter to the person next to them. More than a few of the whispers were harsh, angry sounding. The professor sat straighter, peering disapprovingly at Hermione over her the top of her spectacles. "I beg your pardon?" she said frostily.

Hermione opened the book to reveal the loose parchments pressed between the pages, searching through them for the one containing the finished translation. "It wasn't easy to track down," she admitted. "I searched every book from _'Standard Languages of the Wizarding World' _to _'The Torturous Text of Twisted Tongues'_. It's not noted in any volume devoted to listing wizarding languages. It's almost as if every possible place one would normally think to look for it had been erased. It wasn't until a hunch led me to the zoology section of the library that I finally found it in _'Viper Vernacular'_. It's Parseltongue, all right, and I was able to translate it."

Next to her, Ron bridled in her defense. "Trust me, Professor, if it's anything to do with books, Hermione's the expert."

"And you've done all this since last night?" another disbelieving professor asked.

"Actually, I did most of it this morning," Hermione answered matter-of-factly. "Once I was able - "

The Headmistress of Beauxbatons interrupted. "Professor Dumbledore, I really must protest. We are on a tight schedule, and zere ees seemply no time for zees. Zee child's imagination has obviously run away with her."

"This child," Professor Lupin interrupted, his voice deceptively mild, "is the brightest witch of her age I've ever met. If she says she's found the answer, then she has. And I for one am more than willing to listen to any idea that may help us discover Harry's whereabouts." He smiled kindly at Hermione, urging her to continue.

Grateful for his encouragement, she did so. "The markings mention a place called Captarum...from the Latin meaning 'of the taken', which I believe must be one of Voldemort's bases. Professor Dumbledore, I think it's where he keeps prisoners."

There was another stir, this one the greatest yet. The whispers had become an all-out rumble. Once again Professor Dumbledore was forced to silence the room. Hermione and Ron looked around, surprised by the reaction to the name of Voldemort's base.

"Captarum doesn't exist," the professor with the beehive said. "It's a myth."

"If it's not real, then why do all of you recognize the name?" Ron wanted to know.

"You are hardly the first to have come upon the name, child. Every hundred years, or so, some foolish young person goes off in search of the legendary Captarum, no matter how many people warn against it. None have ever returned."

"Well, that doesn't mean it's not there," Hermione said logically. "In fact, it seems to me to indicate more that it _is_. They found it, and something kept them from returning."

"Wild speculation!" the professor said haughtily.

Finally, Professor Dumbledore spoke. "Speculation or not, thank you both for the information. We will deliberate and choose the appropriate course of action."

"Professor," Ron said, "I'd like to be on the team sent to find Harry."

"Impossible," the Beauxbatons Headmistress declared. "Zere will be no action until we have examined zees alleged 'translation'."

"Well how long is that going to take?" Ron demanded.

The professor with the beehive snootily peered down her nose at them. "You cannot rush into these sorts of things, boy. We can't base a rescue operation on ill-conceived notions and guesses."

Hermione felt heat rush into her cheeks. This was getting ridiculous. It was almost as if they didn't _want_ to find Harry. "Then I suppose we should all just stand around and do nothing, then?" she asked. "It's been four days already. The longer we stand around talking, and not doing anything about it, the more our chances of finding him diminish. We have to go now!"

Her voice had risen in pitch and volume, and by the end she was nearly shouting. She knew she was on edge, and that it was becoming apparent to everyone, but she couldn't help it. Why were she and Ron the only ones who seemed to care about their missing friend?

The professor with the beehive was angry now; her eyes were narrowed and her lips were pinched. The bee circling her head buzzed loudly as it darted about, agitated. "You will do as you're told," she snapped. "I don't know how things were done at Hogwarts, but here _experienced_ wizards do not take orders from little girls!"

Hermione felt Ron tense beside her as he took a breath, no doubt in preparation for the heated tongue-lashing he was about to give. She was surprised, however, when Professor McGonagall interrupted, her own eyes flashing a warning. "At Hogwarts we encouraged students to take the initiative to think on their own and solve problems, Professor Ladenfield, and that is precisely what Miss Granger has done. And for your information, this 'little girl' has seen more action over the past seven years than you've seen in your lifetime. Or perhaps you're merely upset because she solved the puzzle of the amulet, while you were just telling us that you couldn't even be sure the markings were a language at all."

Professor Ladenfield's expression wasn't cold anymore…it was flushed with fury, but she said nothing in response. Dumbledore held up his hand again in entreaty. "Please. Let us save hostility for the forces against us."

He turned to Hermione and Ron. "Do not misunderstand, Miss Granger, Mr. Weasley. We are grateful for the information that you've provided. But Professor Ladenfield is correct in that we must verify your findings, and determine the proper course of action. I'm afraid that sending a team today is out of the question."

Their faces fell, and Dumbledore's own expression softened. "You have both been through far too much, already, and I'm certain that I speak for everyone present when I say that I am concerned for your well being. You should both rest, and let us manage it from here. Trust that we will not cease in our efforts until we find Mr. Potter."

They had no choice but to relinquish Hermione's translation before turning to leave. Their emotions were running high with frustration and disappointment, and Hermione was surprised when Ron was able to contain himself until they were in the hallway. The second the door shut behind them, he exploded. "They won't cease in their efforts!" he exclaimed. "Well that's encouraging. They didn't even know it was _writing_, until you told them. They're not going to get anywhere!"

"I know, Ron," Hermione said. She placed a hand on his arm in an effort to calm him.

He went on as if he hadn't heard her. "Harry could be there. He could be hurt. And we're just supposed to stay here on holiday, and let them 'manage' it? Not bloody likely!"

"You're right," Hermione said, and nearly smiled when Ron turned his wide, blue eyes on her.

"I am?" he asked in obvious surprise. "I mean, you're not going to argue with me about doing what Dumbledore told us to do?"

Hermione shook her head. "It's like you said, Harry could be going through anything right now. He might not have the time it takes for them to decide to go after him. He needs help now."

"Why can't they see that?!" Ron exclaimed. He started off at a fast pace, and Hermione trotted a bit to catch up with him before falling in step.

"Luckily, they didn't confiscate all of my papers," Hermione said as she rifled through the pages of her book. "They have the finished copy, but not all of my work. We still have the information, including the coordinates to Captarum."

"Great," Ron said, holding out a hand. "I'll need that."

Hermione looked at him in confusion as they reached the top of the stairs. "What do you need it for?"

Ron's face reflected her perplexed expression. "So I can go find Harry," he said, in a voice that said his reasoning should have been evident.

Something twisted in Hermione's gut as she began to experience a sense of déjà vu from the morning before. She stopped walking, forcing him to stop and face her. "So that _we_ can go find Harry," she clarified.

Ron rolled his eyes. "Oh, not this again," he said with exasperation.

"You can't be serious!" Hermione cried in disbelief. "How can you complain to me about how the council's wrong to not let us go, and then turn around and expect me to stay here?"

Either he didn't see the similarity, or he chose to ignore Hermione's logic. She was sure it was the latter. "You're not coming," he said firmly.

"You can't keep me here!" she exclaimed, as her eyes began to sting.

"What is wrong with you?" he replied.

To his credit, Ron _did_ appear confused, but Hermione was beyond caring by this point. Who did he think he was, running around making decisions for her suddenly? And just when exactly had she ceased to be part of the team? "What's _wrong_ with me?" she repeated angrily, "That's what I'd like to know. This is just like yesterday. Why can't you trust me to help you? What have I done wrong?"

Ron looked dumbfounded. "What are you going on about, not trusting you? It's nothing to do with trust."

"Isn't it?"

Her voice was shaky, and Ron's brows drew together as he finally realized there was some other issue afoot, here. He stepped closer to her, and Hermione struggled to contain herself. She wanted to understand his reasoning. She wanted him to explain it to her. But mostly she wanted to throw herself into his arms and just hold on while everything else faded away.

"Hermione," he started. "What - "

"Herm-own-ninny!"

Ron stopped, and Hermione tried to reign in her emotions. They turned as one toward the source of the interruption.

Viktor Krum stood on the staircase several steps below them, looking up. "Everything is all right?" he asked uncertainly.

Hermione sketched a weak smile. "Yes, Viktor, everything's fine. Ron and I were just talking."

"Yeah," Ron nearly snarled, "and we'd like to get back to it. So if you wouldn't mind sodding off…"

"Ron!" Hermione reprimanded him, shocked.

He didn't meet her eyes, and after a beat she turned back to the other boy. "I'm sorry, Viktor, really. What was it that you needed?"

Viktor looked uncertainly from her to Ron, then back again. "I vas just vondering…the children vere hoping for another flying lesson today." He smiled winningly at her, turning Hermione's smile into a more genuine one. "I thought I vould see if you vere available to teach with me again."

Ron had watched the exchange silently after his outburst, hid eyes narrowed, but he could obviously hold himself back no longer. "No, she can't!" he claimed.

Hermione rounded on him immediately. "Excuse me?"

Viktor's expression chilled as he stared at Ron. "I believe that is Herm-own-ninny's decision to make."

"Believe whatever you want," Ron snapped. He didn't even appear to notice that he'd grabbed hold of Hermione's arm possessively. "But Hermione's coming with me to find Harry today, so you'll just have to handle your broomstick by yourself. And for the record," he bit out, over-enunciating, "it's 'Hermione'. Her-my-on-ee. Got it?"

Viktor looked back to Hermione for confirmation. Torn between triumph and fury, she tried to keep it all in check as she answered his silent question. "It's all right, Viktor, but I _will_ be away today, so I can't come with you."

"Very vell," Viktor huffed, and shouldered past them. After a moment of watching him walk away, Ron appeared to finally notice that he was still gripping Hermione's arm. He let her go and stepped away, not looking at her again as he asked in a surly voice, "So, are we leaving, or what?"

"I just need to collect a few things from my room," Hermione said stiffly.

"Fine." Ron was just as formal, suddenly. "I'll get our gear and meet you at the hearth."

Hermione watched him head down the hallway, then turned and quickly made her way in the opposite direction. The first turn in the corridor brought her to the object of her search. Viktor stood waiting there for her, leaning against the wall. He straightened when he saw her. "Did it vork?"

Hermione smiled at him gratefully. Even though she'd awakened him at a very early hour, Viktor had graciously listened to her proposal and agreed to help. "It did," she said. "Thank you for your help, Viktor. I'm sorry he was so rude to you. We're just both so worried about Harry that we can't think rationally, it seems."

Viktor raised an eyebrow. "I do not think that vas the only reason he vas angry with me," he said doubtfully.

Hermione bit her lip, uncomfortable in the face of Viktor's accurate perception. How could she explain Ron's animosity toward Viktor when she didn't understand it herself? "Whatever his reason," she said, "it was uncalled for."

Viktor's expression cleared, and he smiled at her. "Whatever his reason, I am certain at least that he vishes to protect you. I hope that you vill be careful, today."

"I will, Viktor, and thank you again." She touched his arm lightly, then headed off to gather what she needed. Whatever happened today, she was determined to find answers.


	7. Chapter 7

Despite the heavy fog, Ron felt incredibly conspicuous as he and Hermione hopped their last stone fence and flattened themselves into the ditch on the other side. They'd been torn between waiting for the cover nightfall would provide, and making their attempt now, in the hopes that they could get to Harry all the sooner. In the end they simply couldn't restrain themselves any longer, and approached the fortress just before dusk. Circling the perimeter once, trying to determine the best plan for getting inside, they'd ultimately decided their greatest chance lay with the drainage pipe protruding from the base of the south wall.

This was it, Ron thought to himself. After disobeying the Order's…er…orders, and half a day of chasing down leads and following clues, they had finally found Captarum.

It rose out of the mist like Avalon, almost ethereal in its mysticism. The imposing exterior of thick walls and spires reaching for the sky notwithstanding, it seemed somehow intangible. Anyone gazing upon it, however, would receive the impression that the fortress was impenetrable and forbidding; it sent out a vibe that said very clearly 'keep away!'.

Ron was becoming accustomed to the feeling. He glanced out of the corner of his eye at the girl next to him and nearly sighed at the lack of expression on her face. She didn't appear angry, or sad, or excited about having found the target of their mission, or anything at all. They'd exchanged the barest minimum of words over the course of the day…only what was necessary to communicate their next move, and nothing more. Initially Ron had still been obsessing over Viktor Krum's invitation that morning, and hadn't bothered trying to make conversation. But it wore off quickly enough, and that was when he'd become aware that Hermione hadn't been speaking to him, either. He knew that their confrontation had angered her, but still didn't understand the origin of her claim that he didn't trust her.

Ron wanted to dismiss it as just being one of those bewildering things that made Hermione…well, Hermione, but her lack of communication was really needling him this time. Like a splinter just beneath the surface of his skin. For one thing, he could see no justification for it. He usually had at least _some_ sort of idea what she was on about, but this time he was absolutely clueless. For another, it was a huge contrast to the way she'd been with him the night before. For the past _two_ nights, actually. Ever since Harry'd gone missing there had seemed to him to be a sort of…_connection_ between them. Something more than usual, in the absence of their friend. Deeper, more personal. He couldn't understand how they kept vacillating from that wonderful new place back to this, with them hardly speaking to each other. He wanted to talk to her about it, but he didn't know how to begin.

Not to mention the fact that this was hardly the most opportune moment.

They'd already spotted a trio of Dementors patrolling the grounds – their black, tattered robes thankfully obscuring their faces – and had luckily avoided them altogether. With who knew how many more on the loose, now was not the ideal time for a heart-to-heart. Besides, Harry might be only minutes away. They had to stay focused on their objective.

With that in mind, Ron poked his head up and scrutinized the surrounding area, unable to detect any sign of Dementors. There was a scarcity of cover between them and the moat into which the pipe drained, but it couldn't be helped. They'd just have to make a dash for it.

He nudged Hermione, arching his eyebrows in silent inquiry when she met his gaze. She nodded to indicate that she was ready, and as one they scrambled to their feet and hurried across the no-man's-land to the moat.

When they reached the lip Ron paused, scanning for trouble alertly while Hermione aimed her wand at the murky water. "Solidify!" she whispered.

There was a flash, and when Ron turned back she was already slipping over the edge of the embankment. He cursed to himself and hurried after her, wishing she'd waited for a moment until he'd gotten to the bottom first and could catch her.

It seemed, however, that Hermione meant to do everything without his assistance on this mission. And so, still grumbling, he threw a leg over the top of the slope and skidded down after her.

They landed on solid ice, and while it didn't make for the best footing, Ron was too grateful that they weren't being forced to tread drainage water to complain. They slid and skated perilously over to the wide-mouthed pipe that jutted out from the base of the wall, where Ron paused to assess their options.

The lower rim was probably about a half-metre above his own head; he could easily grasp it when he reached up with his arms. Hermione was going to be another matter altogether, though. He could probably use the 'wingardium leviosa' spell to levitate her up there, but it'd most likely be faster just to give her a lift. Hoping that his pint-sized friend wasn't going to be obstinate about not accepting help when she very clearly needed it, Ron cupped his palms together and laced his fingers, forming a 'stair' for her.

After ascertaining with a quick glance up that there was no way she'd be able to reach the pipe on her own, Hermione moved toward Ron. He firmed up his stance and then bent his knees slightly, lowering his makeshift stair. She planted her foot in it, then hesitantly rested her hands on his shoulders for balance. There was a long beat where their faces were tantalizingly close. His downcast eyes flicked up to meet hers…sky blue to her mahogany brown. She blinked and looked away, breaking the eye contact. With the vague taste of disappointment in his mouth, Ron counted silently to himself, nodding each number at Hermione. _One, two_…

On the unspoken 'three' he heaved her upwards, pushing her foot with his hand when she grabbed hold of the pipe and hoisted herself inside. Another scan of his surroundings while he listened to her scrabbling around, making room for him, and then he tossed up his backpack. Hermione caught it and drew back again as he reached up to grasp the lower rim.

Once he'd pulled himself up, Hermione helped to drag him the rest of the way inside. They rested there for a moment, catching their breath quietly just beyond the circle of light that shone in. Hermione fished in her pocket for the rough plans they'd obtained from their last contact, angling them so that she could read in the gloom. "We'll emerge from this duct into the lower-most level…that _should_ be the dungeon."

Her voice sounded loud in the confined space, and it was only then that he realized just how well they'd been progressing without words. The last eight months of going on missions together, and over six years' worth of friendship behind that had given them the ability to function together as a fluid unit, a team that required little to no verbal communication in order to operate on the same page. It made him feel proud, but it also sparked a pang for Harry, whose absence he still felt distinctly. The mission didn't feel complete without him…the third member of their trio, the mediating influence, the one who rounded them out and kept them focused.

But that was why they were here, right? To get him back. Back where he belonged.

Toward that end, Ron indicated with a jerk of his chin that Hermione should go first. She folded the plans neatly, pocketed them, and turned to begin crawling down the tunnel.

He wasn't sure how much later it was when he finally became aware of the strange sounds coming from in front of him. He only knew that he felt as if he'd been clambering through the chilly, inch-deep water for an eternity, so he couldn't be certain how long he'd been hearing Hermione's panting.

In fact, he wasn't sure panting was the right word, anymore. They were more like…wheezes. As if she were having a hard time catching her breath. But it couldn't be that, because she was still trudging tirelessly away in front of him. Additionally, he could detect nothing wrong with the air, and was having no respiratory trouble at all.

Ron increased his pace until he could reach her. His fingers snagged a saturated fold in the fabric of her pant leg, and he tugged gently. "Hermione?"

If anything, she scrabbled faster, her leg pulling out of his clutch abruptly. Her labored breathing became more so…harsh and gasping, with a desperate catch to it. Okay, something was definitely wrong.

Ron caught up with her again, but she didn't slow down despite his increasingly worried inquiries. "Hermione, stop!" he finally commanded, then tackled her.

Considering the tight confines of the pipe, this was no easy task. It involved a lot of yanking, a lot of twisting, until finally they were still. They ended with Hermione's back half up against the side of the pipe, the rest of her in the water, and Ron pressing against her to keep her in place. The last time he'd lain mostly atop her flickered quickly through his mind; he was helpless not to think of it. But her distress now was more than enough to help him maintain his concentration.

He didn't understand what was wrong with her…she'd never had an issue with restricted spaces before, so he knew she wasn't claustrophobic by nature. But as she continued to struggle against him in an effort to free herself, making little whimpers of fear, he was suddenly reminded of the night before. And the night before _that_, when he'd had to forcibly wake her from her nightmares about the house. About the…

The crawlspace. Of course.

Ron closed his eyes, willing to hold on to her until this passed. "Shhh," he murmured, "Hermione, listen to me. Listen to me. It's not like the house. Okay? 'Mione, we're safe. Well…that's relative, I suppose, but we're not in any immediate danger, and we _will_ get out of here. All right? There's an end to the tunnel, we just have to get to it."

Her struggles gradually weakened, until she was just pressing against him, but not pushing him away. "I have to get out," she whispered.

"We will," he promised her. His right hand drifted up seemingly of its own accord and cradled her cheek as he pulled back to look at her. Her eyes were wide, her lips parted, and her chest still heaved with each ragged breath. There was a moment of irrational - rather inappropriate for the circumstances, he thought – attraction on his part, but he flicked it away and focused on easing the panic that was making her so tense. "I'm sorry, 'Mione, I didn't even think… We'll get out, I swear. It can't be much further." He paused, his eyes narrowing at her. She'd calmed a bit, but that wasn't what he'd just noticed.

He could see her. Neither had been using their wands for illumination for fear of giving away their position to anyone who might be on the other end of the pipe, but the darkness was no longer complete. From the direction they'd been heading in, a faint orange glow could be seen in the distance.

Hermione made the same realization simultaneously, turning her head also to look. Her sound of relief was half sob, half sigh. "Oh, thank goodness," breathed.

Ron seconded that. He turned back to Hermione. "You going to be okay?"

She nodded, already pushing him back so that she could resume her relentless crawl onward. "I will be, now."

The going was a trifle slower than before, due to the fact that they were trying to make as little noise as possible. Upon reaching the end of the pipe, however, they learned that their stealth had been unnecessary.

"There's no one down here," Hermione said in a defeated voice.

"And you're disappointed? Ron asked incredulously. "I don't know about you, but the fewer bad guys we have to face before we get out of here, the better."

"Yes, Ron," she agreed, "but I was rather hoping that we'd find Harry being held down here. Now we'll have to search the fortress, thereby actually increasing our chances of being discovered."

"Oh," Ron said. There wasn't really much else to say in the face of her logic.

A brief search of the dungeon yielded nothing useful other than a staircase leading up to the next level. Keeping his wand ready and Hermione safely behind him, Ron mounted the stone steps quickly but quietly. He gently released the catch on the massive door at the top and eased it open, cursing the hinges that squeaked in protest.

Ron tentatively poked his head out; all he could see in either direction were hard, bare floors and flickering torches that cast moving shadows along the curved stone walls. He motioned for Hermione to follow him, and stepped out into the empty hall. When they had enough room, Ron dug into their pack and retrieved what would be their most useful tool on this mission. Hermione stepped closer to him as he unfurled Harry's invisibility cloak and draped it around them both. The cloak was a staple of their supplies…it was packed for every mission. Luckily for them, Ron was nearly always the one in charge of the pack and had therefore been in possession of the cloak at the time of Harry's disappearance.

Every sense heightened in dreadful anticipation of discovery, they consulted Hermione's plans again and headed off to the right. They followed the hallway until they reached a set of double doors, on the other side of which they could hear voices. Ron tried to make them out, but the doors were too thick to allow him to separate the muffled sounds into individual words. He felt Hermione touch his arm and he turned toward her. She had her plans out again, and was pointing to a staircase they'd just passed. He didn't know where it led, but could tell Hermione thought it was important, so he let her lead him as she doubled back.

At the top they cautiously turned left, finding another, smaller door just where the larger ones had been a floor below.

This time Hermione released the catch and pushed the door open gently while Ron kept a keen eye on the hallway behind them. A moment later he felt her tug on his arm again, and retreated with her through the door.

On the other side, Ron blinked upon discovering himself in a great hall. The room was dim – just as in the hallways, the only lighting originated from the inconsistent flames of torches scattered all about the room proper, below – but Ron could tell that they were in some sort of upper level, like a balcony. The high ceiling stretched out over them, running all the way to the other end of the room where he could see another 'balcony' against the opposite wall.

They crept forward silently to the railing and peered down. In the room below was amassed the largest number of Death Eaters they'd ever seen together in one place. There had to be at least two dozen of them; they all sat around a long, rectangular table centered in the middle of the room. Each was wearing the traditional black robes and ceramic mask. It appeared that even here they operated in secret, not daring to reveal their faces even to each other, though Ron was sure that each knew the identity of the others. They'd been arguing about something since before their silent intruders entered the room, but now one voice in particular drew Ron's attention like an arrow to its target.

"Silence!" it demanded. "I will hear no more of your excuses! How difficult can it be to find one boy?"

The command had been more hissed than shouted; nevertheless it had a profound effect on all of those who heard it. The Death Eaters cringed as one, shrinking back into themselves as much as possible. Up in the balcony, Ron shared a meaningful – if surprised – glance with Hermione. When the hell had Lucius Malfoy escaped from Azkaban prison? And why hadn't they been informed? Worst of all, if Malfoy was searching for Harry too, then it meant that their friend wasn't being held prisoner here. Ron felt his heart sink and saw his own anguish reflected back at him through Hermione's eyes. They'd failed. Everything they'd gone through to get here, and they were no closer to finding Harry.

Ron's grip on the railing tightened helplessly in frustration before he became aware that Malfoy had gone on. "Four days have passed and not one of you has brought back any useful information as to the whereabouts of my son." Hermione and Ron shared another look, this one of renewed hope. Then Malfoy's voice went low, spiteful and insidious. "I know that Potter had something to do with it." He turned to the Death Eater sitting immediately to his left. "You're certain that the Order is still looking for him, also?"

The voice that answered was even more crafty and deceitful than Malfoy's, and even more well-known to the two former students of Hogwarts. They'd both borne the scars of his tongue lashings before, after all.

"They've had as little luck in locating Mr. Potter as we've had in finding Draco," Severus Snape said. From his place on the floor of the balcony, Ron's hands balled up into fists of rage. Even Snape's _voice_ sounded oily, he thought angrily. He'd known it! He'd known from the very beginning that Snape was betraying them! What had Dumbledore been thinking, allowing him to work with the Order of the Phoenix?

Hermione's eyes were also flashing dangerously, but neither of them spoke. They couldn't take the chance that their whispers would be heard by one of the evil men below. And so it was that they heard with perfect clarity that which Malfoy said next.

"And what of the wizards? It was their home, after all. Perhaps they left some sort of trap?"

"We've been unable to detect any such magic," a third Death Eater chimed in.

"And," Snape continued, "the wizards were given no opportunity to prepare such a snare. The attack was swift, and they were taken nearly immediately."

"Nearly isn't good enough," Malfoy replied. Ron could practically hear the sneer in his voice. "Question them," the Death Eater ordered Snape.

"I've been questioning them about the device since their capture. They've divulged no intelligence about it all this time; I find it unlikely that they would now inform us that they'd left a little ambush if we just ask nicely."

Malfoy stood, looming over Snape threateningly. Now his voice rose. "Then don't. Ask. Nicely. Find out where my son is, then find out how we use the device. Is that understood?"

Snape stood and bowed stiffly before turning on his heel and stalking from the room. Ron indicated silently to Hermione that they'd heard enough, then crept out as quietly as possible.

Back in the hallway, Ron tried to keep his voice down. "Bloody Snape," he swore, pulling off the invisibility cloak and throwing it to the floor.

"Ron," Hermione said after shutting the door, "did you hear?"

"I heard everything," he said, scowling at the door to the balcony and trying not to focus on the treachery of their former professor. "Draco's missing, too. One of them did something. Ten to one they're in the same place."

"We've got to rescue them."

He'd known she was going to say that, just as he knew she wasn't talking about Harry and Draco. He'd already decided for himself to go after the parents. He also knew he was going to get nowhere in arguing with her, but he had to at least _try_ to persuade her to leave, first. "Hermione…"

"Ron!" she interrupted, "it's the parents of the children we found! You heard Malfoy. They're probably going to torture them for the information they want. No one else knows they're here; we _have_ to help them!"

"Yeah," Ron sighed. "I know. I don't suppose I can convince you report back to the mansion and leave this to me, can I?"

Hermione just stared at him, and he sighed again. "Didn't think so. All right, then. Let's go follow Snape."

**VV**

"I've come to give you one last chance to tell me what you know about the disappearances of Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter," Snape said.

He spoke to the witch and wizard who were chained to opposite walls inside their cell.

Hermione and Ron had trailed his every move as he made his way back to the interrogation room. He'd given no indication that he knew he wasn't alone, and so they experienced no difficulty in following him right into the room that contained his prisoners. They hung back while he questioned them, afraid to stray too close and give themselves away by some sense other than sight. Both recalled Harry's relation of events the time he thought Snape had perceived him in the hallway back in first year despite the cloak. Neither wished to risk attracting his attention.

Grateful again for the ability Harry's invisibility cloak gave them, Hermione watched as Snape stood in front of the cell door, his gaze directed at the inhabitants. Both were grimy and exhausted from existing in such conditions for the past week, and Hermione wondered when the last time was that they'd been permitted to eat or drink. The husband looked rather worse off than his wife; it appeared that he'd put up quite a struggle. The marks on his face and wrists showed all too clearly how he'd been subdued.

"Very well," Snape said after several moments of silence had slipped by. "Then perhaps you'd care to discuss the device, again. We already know what it's for…you'd hoped to be able to use your invention to locate Lord Voldemort's bases with it. And we know that the reverse is also true. It can be used to find the Order's bases in the same fashion. What we _don't_ know is how to make it work."

He paused again, waiting for one of his captives to speak. When neither did, his voice grew impatient. "I do not think either of you fully appreciate your position. There are many, very unpleasant ways you can be made to talk. If you won't speak on your own, be sure other methods will soon be utilized. I advise you to tell me all you know, now, while you still have the opportunity. I…don't believe you'll be able to resist much longer."

Hermione wondered why he was even giving them the chance. In fact, she was sort of surprised that he hadn't already used the 'other methods' at his disposal to get what he wanted. He'd already proven through his disloyalty to the Order that he couldn't be trusted not to be unscrupulous.

There was a third gap of silence as he once more appeared to be waiting for input from the prisoners. When they were either unable or unwilling to respond, he turned as if to leave.

Hermione's breath caught in her throat as he halted abruptly before reaching the door, no more than an arm's length away from her position under the cloak with Ron. She couldn't see his face due to the mask, but could imagine his burning black eyes and the profile of his beaky nose as he turned to regard the space next to him. She dug her fingers helplessly into Ron's shoulder, feeling him tense for action beside her.

There was a long, tension-filled moment where no one moved, and then suddenly Snape sniffed and turned away, detouring over to his desk. Hermione couldn't see what he was doing over there, but several drawers were opened, then shut, and then he was walking out through the door.

As one, Hermione and Ron released a great, pent up sigh of relief. Ron pulled the cloak off and dashed to the cell, gripping the bars in each hand and shaking, as if testing their strength. Unfortunately, their construction appeared to be quite solid. Hermione drew her wand from her side pocket and pointed it at the lock. "Alohamora," she tried.

When the lock remained locked, Hermione sighed. "There's a counter spell on it. I didn't think such a rudimentary charm would work."

"Had to give it a shot, though," Ron agreed, looking around for some sort of tool that would aid them in breaking open the cell door.

Hermione bit her lip, also scanning the room. Just what _had_ Snape been doing over there at his desk before leaving? She wandered over, her gaze flitting over each item strewn across its surface before narrowing on one in particular. It couldn't be.

It just couldn't be…because that would mean…

"Key," she said hoarsely.

Ron looked up with a skeptical expression. "It couldn't be that simple," he protested.

"It makes perfect sense," Hermione countered. "They're wizards. They might've been able to reverse any magic on the lock eventually. But without their wands they wouldn't have been able to do much, or get to the key." She picked it up off the desk and hurried over to the cell door. The key slid effortlessly into the lock and turned smoothly. Then they were in.

Hermione rushed to the woman and used her wand to dismantle the manacles, while Ron did the same at the opposite end of the cell. "He's barely conscious," he called over to her.

Hermione's charge was scarcely better off. Up close she could see her fears about the captives' treatment had been justified. The woman was pale and thin…probably neither she nor her husband had sustained much nourishment over the past week. She moaned quietly at Hermione's light touch, lolling her head to one side as her only means of escape.

"Madam," Hermione said, belatedly realizing that she'd never stopped to learn the names of the owners of the house. "We've come to take you out of here. Can you walk?"

"The children," the woman sobbed suddenly. "My babies."

"We haven't got time for this," Ron said. Hermione looked over her shoulder to find him standing there already, supporting most of the weight of the husband who had one arm slung around Ron's shoulders. "Get her up," he instructed.

Hermione looked down at the woman doubtfully. Though she was weak from her ordeal, she still had a good six inches on the young witch, and she thought her chances of successfully rousting the woman and keeping her up the way Ron was doing were dubious at best. Still, she had to try.

Hermione grasped one of the woman's arms and hauled her to a sitting position, then stood and tried to hoist her up. The woman was of little help. "Come on," Hermione pleaded. "I can't do this alone, and we've got to hurry. You must help me."

"What's the use?" the woman whispered, tears filling her eyes and spilling over. "It's been too long. My children are gone."

Hermione thought her heart would break just from the expression on the woman's face alone. She'd never seen such utter, hopeless desolation before, and felt her own eyes begin to sting in empathy. She blinked furiously, hearing Ron shuffle behind her. "We've got to go! Who knows when Snape'll come back?"

Hermione had her own thoughts about that, but now was not the time to go into them. In any case, there was no way she was going to be able to lift the woman. If she was going to get up, she'd have to do it on her own. And Hermione thought she knew how to give her the strength to do that. "I've been to your house," she said suddenly. "We went there to investigate three days after your disappearance."

Her words did what her gentle hands had been unable to…they snapped the woman awake immediately. Her eyes opened wide and fixed on Hermione's face. "Did you find the children?!" she pleaded.

Hermione felt hot tears run down her cheeks as she nodded. "In the cellar," she choked out. "We found them. Madam…I'm so sorry…but the little boy…the smallest. He…"

She couldn't finish the sentence. She didn't have to. The woman read the grief on her face as easily as if the words were written there and gave a great sob. She clung to Hermione and mourned for the loss of her child with the pain only a mother could truly know.

Hermione tried to comfort her, knowing that there was nothing she could ever say or do that could make this any easier to bear. Her hand cradled the back of the woman's head, rocking slowly as she weeped against her neck.

Behind her, Ron's voice was thick. "Hermione…"

"I know," she said softly over her shoulder. She turned back to the stranger in her arms. "Madam, I'm sorry. There was nothing we could do for him. But the others…all of your other children are alive."

She saw it happen. There was a spark in the other woman's eyes. The grief was too fresh, too deep to escape completely, but she watched as the woman pushed it down and locked it away for later. Hermione watched as she took a shuddering breath and looked up hopefully. "Alive?"

"All of the others," Hermione confirmed. "They've been taken to Headquarters, and they're waiting for you. You have to be strong for them, and help us get you out of here, all right?"

The woman's expression firmed with purpose, and she looked past Hermione to her nearly unconscious husband. "We'll do what we have to do," she said.


	8. Chapter 8

"Wait. Wait! We can't leave."

Ron groaned and derailed into the wall, shifting the weight of his heavy burden so that the nearly unconscious man was leaning mostly against the stone, instead of mostly against Ron. As he panted from the exertion, his gaze wandered up to the ceiling where he spotted a cobweb. "Right. This place is charming. Real cozy-like. I can understand why you'd want to stay."

He eyed the wife of the man he'd been practically carrying. "Wait a minute, no, I can't. Why can't we leave?"

"The device!" she said. There were still obvious signs of fatigue about her…she was gaunt, hollow looking. Dark smudges under her eyes told Ron that she hadn't really slept for days. The tears had dried on her cheeks, but he could still see their tracks through the dirt on her face. But there were signs of life, also, and he knew they were directly attributed to Hermione's revelation that all but one of the woman's children had survived. She had something to live for, now, and the fact that she considered the device important enough to risk being recaptured spoke volumes.

"I thought they couldn't make it work?" Hermione asked.

"It's only a matter of time," the woman replied. She ran shaky hands through her short, dark hair. "We can't leave without it. It's what we were working on when we were taken…it's the whole _reason_ we were taken. What that Death Eater said is true…if they determine how to use it they could find our bases. Lives could be lost. It could conceivably turn the tide of the war for whichever side possesses it."

"Well then," Ron sighed dramatically. "I guess we're not leaving."

"How do we find it?" Hermione wanted to know.

"We've been here for a week," the woman answered. "Every day they'd march us into the room where they're keeping it, trying to make us tell them how it operates. I know exactly where it is."

"All right," Ron said decisively, the plan already crystal clear in his head. "Here's what we'll do: Hermione, you take them back to the pipe. I'll go and get this whoozit and meet you back there, and we'll all get out of here together."

"You'll need me to lead you to it," the woman pointed out. "You'll get lost, otherwise."

"Then you'll come with me," he decided.

"Actually," Hermione interrupted, "I was thinking the exact same thing…except you should take him," here she nodded at the nearly unconscious man who was still propped up against the wall, "and I'll go and get the device."

"I don't think so."

"Ron…"

"No," he said flatly. "Not going to happen."

"Ron, look at him. _You're_ having trouble keeping him upright, and you're stronger than I am. It only makes sense for you to be the one to take him."

"We're not splitting up," Ron declared.

He watched as Hermione's fists opened and closed spasmodically, as if she were having to restrain herself from reaching over and throttling him. Well good. Why should he be the only one aggravated? "It was okay to split us up a moment ago when it was you going off to find the device," she said, sounding as if she were trying to be reasonable.

"It's still me going off to find the device," he answered.

"Ron, you're not making any sense!" she cried.

"Look," Ron said angrily, "I'll make it plain for you. No way am I letting you wander off alone in this bloody place!"

Oh, she was really riled up, now. He could tell from the way her face was getting all blotchy. "You're doing it again," she hissed. "I can not believe you're doing it _again_!"

"Doing what?"

"Making decisions for me! Directing me about like I'm some helpless little girl, incapable of contributing anything useful. Well, I don't care what you think about me…you're the one best suited to get him out of here, so I'm going to get the device."

"Like hell you are!" Ron nearly shouted. He couldn't deal with this right now, he just really couldn't. On top of not finding Harry, worrying about getting these people out of here, the new task of locating the device, Viktor Krum, and everything else, he just simply could not handle the idea of Hermione wandering off in a hostile environment on a dangerous mission of her own, without him. What if something happened to her?

"Excuse me," the woman interrupted. She'd been watching them silently, her eyes flicking back and forth like a spectator at a lively Quidditch tournament. "But she's right, and we don't have much time. We could be discovered missing at any moment."

Ron's jaw clenched and he glanced at his charge. What they said was true…the bloke was out on his feet, and his large frame was proving to be quite a handful. He tried to picture his diminutive friend bearing that weight successfully all the way back to the dungeon, and the mental image proved that she was right. Her version of the plan was the only one with any possibility of success. As much as he hated to let her out of his sight, he was going to have to.

"All right," he said reluctantly.

Hermione blinked, taken off guard. "What?"

"I said, okay. You're right, your way's the only way that'll work. I just…I'll take him back to the pipe; you two get the device and meet us there. Just…be careful, will you?"

He met Hermione's gaze, knowing that his concern for her shone plainly on his face, but unable to hide it. In her own eyes he saw some strange, new, indefinable emotion. Surprise, mostly, but also…something else. He wasn't sure what it was, but it warmed him and he realized it was the first time since that morning that he'd felt connected with her. Somehow it made him feel better.

"I will," she promised.

When the woman headed down the corridor, Hermione turned and followed. Sighing to himself Ron turned back to the man, who by this point had slid nearly down the wall. "Well, looks like it's just you and me, mate," he commented, pulling an arm around his shoulder and hauling the man up. "We've got a long walk ahead of us; we'd best get started."

**VV**

The only sounds were her own blood rushing in her ears and the quick, light noise of their shoes on stone. Underneath that, surrounding it, the silence seemed to make a sound of its own…a loud, high-pitched whine that buzzed in Hermione's ears and caused her to constantly be looking around in a paranoid fashion. It was nerves, she knew, but she felt as if they were being watched. As if someone knew where they were and was just waiting for the right moment to pounce. She'd been on enough covert operations to recognize the sound as being the product of hyper-sensitive hearing induced by the unique thrill that came with apprehensive anticipation. In other words, they were somewhere they oughtn't be, and she worried that they could be caught at any moment.

Next to her, the woman she'd rescued from the cell was equally fleet-footed and silent, her every movement efficient. She radiated professionalism, reminding Hermione of the dynamic she, Ron and Harry had together when they went on missions.

The woman paused before a large, heavy-looking door and glanced down both ends of the corridor before turning to Hermione. "It's in here," she breathed.

Hermione kept her voice just as low when she replied, "Shouldn't there be guards, if it's so important?"

"Who's going to steal it?" the woman wanted to know. "No one but Death Eaters roam these halls. Now, stand watch while I get us inside."

Hermione did as she asked, stepping off a few paces and keeping an alert eye out for any indication that someone was coming. The long moments stretched out unbearably, and eventually she couldn't keep her eyes from straying to her companion.

The older woman was kneeling in front of the door poking some sort of long, slender instrument into the lock. Surprised, Hermione asked, "Where did you get that?"

"From the desk in the cell room," she replied. The words were mumbled due to a second sliver held clamped between her teeth. "It's just a splinter of metal. I'm not even sure what it's for. But it should be adequate for our purposes."

With great concentration she maneuvered the first sliver into place and then retrieved the second from her mouth. She inserted it into the lock carefully, then jiggled it slightly. There was a catch and when she reached for the knob it turned easily in her hand. She shared a weak smile with Hermione. "By the way," she said, "if we're going to be breaking and entering together, don't you think we should be formally introduced?" She held out her hand and Hermione took it. "I'm Ursula Stockwell."

"Hermione Granger," Hermione smiled, and together they went inside.

The room was spacious and - like the rest of the fortress that Hermione had seen – conspicuously bare of any form of decoration. Illumination came from numerous candelabras placed around the room. Their flickering light showcased the mystery of the silver device that rested on a round table, which was the only piece of furniture in the room.

Hermione watched as the older woman approached it slowly, a look of loss crossing etching into her features. "For this. Everything that's happened; all of it was because of this."

She skimmed her long, elegant fingers lightly over the surface of the device. "We were trying to help. We've been working for the Order from the beginning; both my family and my husband's fought against Voldemort the last time he rose to power. But no matter what happens, it seems he can never be fully vanquished. This war just drags on, endlessly. It's not the life I wanted for my children."

Fresh tears welled up in her eyes. "And so we built this…this thing. If it works, we can locate every one of his bases and strategically take them out. It could win the war for us. Only somehow he found out."

Her eyes closed and Hermione knew she wasn't really there anymore. She was back at her house on the morning her world had been turned upside down. "We had only a few minutes' warning that the Death Eaters were about to attack. No time to conceal the device, no time to get away. All we could do was hide the children where they wouldn't find them. We hoped that somehow we'd escape and get back to them. It was the only chance."

Her breath hitched with a sob, and she covered her face with her hands. "But as the days dragged on we couldn't get away. Our only hope was that by some miracle, somehow, they would be found in time."

"I'm so sorry," Hermione said. Her voice was thick with emotion. "We didn't receive the mission orders until the morning we found them. I didn't get to them in time. I should have…I wish there was something…"

She trailed off brokenly, staring at the floor and trying to hold back the tears. Her emotional distress seemed to trigger something in Ursula, for she turned and approached Hermione.

"I don't think you understand," she said. She placed her hand on Hermione's arm, nearly breaking her heart with the unbearable mix of sadness and kindness on her face. "I'd given up. As the days stretched on I came to realize that all of my children were dead. You can't possibly understand what a horrible feeling that is. The grief is overwhelming. I had…no hope, anymore. The pain was…beyond anything I've ever known. It's what I feel for my little Charlie. I can't think about him right now, not too much or I'll fall apart. But you gave me something precious when you came to rescue us, and I don't just mean our freedom. I wasn't blaming you. There was no way you could've known. No way anyone could have. You gave my children and my hope back to me…I can never repay you for that."

**VV**

Ron became aware that he was tapping his fingers against his thigh again.

He'd started doing it soon after successfully arriving with Mr. Stockwell in the dungeon. The man had regained consciousness long enough to exchange a little information and to offer limited assistance in lowering himself down the stairs. After the exertion required to raise himself into the pipe, however, he'd promptly passed out again, leaving Ron to wait alone.

To wait, and to worry.

Unfortunately, there was absolutely nothing else he could do. He couldn't go looking for Hermione and Mrs. Stockwell, because he didn't know where the device was being kept. Additionally, Mr. Stockwell was utterly defenseless while unconscious, and couldn't be left alone.

He thought it was safe enough, however, to creep back out of the dungeon and wait across the hall from the door. There was a recessed alcove there that he fit into quite comfortably, although the cold from the stone floor seeped into him after he'd sat there for awhile.

And then it had started. The tapping. When he realized he was doing it, he stilled himself immediately. This wasn't exactly the best environment in which to be fidgeting. Any passerby would be attracted to the movement. It just wasn't safe. But he couldn't stop himself. His mind kept wandering. He wondered where Harry and Draco were. One of the first questions Ron had asked Mr. Stockwell when he came to was whether or not he had any idea what might've happened after they left. Mr. Stockwell hadn't; according to him, there'd been no time to conjure any sort of magical trap that might've ensnared the two boys after the kidnapping. So Ron had been right…wherever they were, one or both of them had done something to contribute to their situation. As this was their last and only lead, he could only hope that they could get themselves out of it again.

_Well, Harry, anyway,_ Ron thought. _Who gives a toss whether Malfoy ever makes it back again, or not?_

As the minutes stretched, his mind continued to work. He wondered if the device the Stockwells had created would actually accomplish its function. He wondered what that look Hermione gave him had meant. He wondered if they were going to get out of here undetected. And he wondered what in the hell was taking them so long.

Just when his fingers had resumed their beat against his thigh for the dozenth time, he heard footsteps. Ron stood quickly, pressing himself as far back into the alcove as he could go, and still see out. The sound of footsteps grew closer, and then Hermione came into view. Unaware of his presence, she stood in front of the dungeon door across the hall and turned to her right. Ron couldn't see the other woman from his perspective, but he assumed Mrs. Stockwell stood next to her. They were conferring about something, but obviously there was no danger. Ron stepped out into the hallway, startling them both.

"Everything all right?" he asked.

"We got it," Ursula held up the device. Ron glanced at it, but then his gaze returned to Hermione. Her eyes were red-rimmed, as if she'd been crying, but when she looked back at him she smiled tentatively, relieving the anxiety that had built up within him while she was gone. He smiled back.

"Where's Jack?" Ursula asked anxiously.

"He's all right," Ron started, but that was as far as he got before the sound of many running feet came to them from around the corner. Ursula spun around, looking back the way they'd come with wide, panicky eyes. "They know we took the device," she whispered, whipping back to face Ron and Hermione. "They can't get it back!"

The answer came to Ron immediately. "Get down there. Get out. We'll lead them away." He yanked open the door to the cellar and reached for Ursula, but Hermione was already there, pushing her through. Ursula sputtered, but any protest she might have voiced was perfunctorily cut off when Ron shut the door in her face. He grabbed Hermione's hand and took off in the opposite direction. Behind them, he heard shouting.

What followed was a sort of a frantic game of hide and seek, wherein Hermione and Ron always seemed to be only a step or two ahead of those who pursued them. The Death Eaters followed dangerously close, like a pack of hounds nipping at the heels of the fox. They were just behind them, almost within eyesight, when Hermione ducked into a hallway on their right. Immediately she pulled Ron into the first door on the left. On the other side of the door she kept her hand tight with his as she ran for the only other door in the room.

It wasn't until they emerged back into the corridor they'd started from again that Ron realized what she'd done. The Death Eaters on their trail had been temporarily fooled into thinking their quarry was escaping down the side passageway, when really Hermione had doubled them back to the point of origin. The ploy would only buy them a few moments, but it was a few moments they couldn't afford to pass up.

Unfortunately, it wasn't enough to allow them the time they'd need to withdraw Harry's invisibility cloak from their pack. They had no choice but to run for it, racing back the way they'd come, arriving breathless in front of the dungeon door. Ron threw it open and shoved Hermione before him. She hastened down the stairs ahead of him, both of them skidding and missing steps, scraping their hands down the rough stone wall as they fought to keep from falling.

Ron's eyes shot ahead to the pipe, and then widened when he saw Ursula Stockwell inside, beckoning toward them. "Hurry!" she urged.

"What are you doing here?!" Hermione demanded as they ran up to her. "You were supposed to be getting out!"

"I got Jack out and hid the device. I couldn't just leave you here."

"Less talk, more escaping," Ron advised anxiously, glancing back even as he helped push Hermione up into the conduit. She heaved herself into the pipe and he immediately dropped to his knees, ripping the backpack off his shoulders and digging around inside.

At the top of the stairs, the door flew open with a bang against the wall. Death Eaters streamed in, slipping down the steps like water over river stones. The chillingly vacant expression of each mask was trained on them, their malice palpable. Ron could taste it. Like wasps they swarmed at the bottom of the staircase, radiating menace, then probed forward with their wands outstretched.

Ron was ready for them. In his hands he held the package he'd retrieved from the bottom of the pack. With one flick of the wrist he made short work of the string around the burlap sack. Grasping the rough fabric carefully, he fluidly stood and flung the contents of the sack at the Death Eaters.

A tiny Brittany Spaniel puppy soared through the air, its silken ears spread out like wings.

He heard Hermione's horrified gasp behind him, and he almost…almost…grinned. He hadn't had the time (or the inclination, after the little encounter with Viktor Krum that morning, if the truth be told) to fill her in on his 'surprise package' and he was sure that she – as he had the night before – assumed that what she saw was the real thing.

At the peak of its arc the Hush Puppy spun, its traditional rust and white colors bleeding together to become uniformly pink. It grew and flattened in the blink of an eye, mutating into the design its true function demanded.

The fleshy mass struck the pack of Death Eaters at the base of the stairway and expanded, stretching around them to capture the vast majority within the translucent membrane.

It happened quickly. One moment there was a horde of black-robed aggressors standing at the base of the stairs threatening pain and death; in the next there was only a harmless squirming blob.

Two Death Eaters were fortunate enough to have been standing just behind the others, and therefore escaped the Hush Puppy's snare. In unison they lunged forward, aiming their wands at Ron.

The next few moments were a blur to him. He'd had to pocket his wand in order to use both hands to retrieve the Hush Puppy from the rucksack, and so it was with a sort of helpless fascination that he watched the advance of the men who would kill him. They seemed to approach in slow motion, as if they were moving underwater; yet Ron felt the impotent defenselessness of a man marked for death. And there was no time left at all.

Then above him, behind him, he heard Hermione's voice chanting. At the exact same moment, another Death Eater surged into the room from the door at the top of the stairs, his wand pointed at the other two. As if through layers of cotton Ron heard him saying something too, but he couldn't make it out. His voice mingled with Hermione's and it was only when they finished that Ron comprehended they'd been saying the same spell.

A blue mist shot out from the tips of their wands, immediately streaming forward to swirl around the two remaining Death Eaters. The moment the mist touched them the masked men seemed incapable of lifting their arms. They staggered on their feet, swaying drunkenly before toppling over like felled trees. Each man stayed where he landed, snoring loudly. Belatedly, Ron recognized the sleep spell.

He stared at the robed man at the top of the staircase, scarcely able to believe what had just happened. A cute little puppy morphing into a big wad of chewing gum, sure. Hermione saving his life with a last-minute spell, of course. She'd done so before, and would no doubt do so again.

But Professor Snape? The same Professor Snape that they'd just heard interrogating the Stockwells? Death Eater Snape?

It appeared so, for as he walked down the stairs to meet them Snape removed his mask, revealing dark, burning eyes and the pale complexion of one who spent all of his time indoors. His black hair, as always, hung down around his face. "Mr. Weasley. Miss Granger. Still exhibiting blatant disregard for the rules, I see."

"You're undercover," Ron realized.

"And you could have jeopardized my entire mission!" Snape reprimanded.

"We didn't know you were here, Professor," Hermione explained.

"That's true," Snape conceded. "Which is why you're not supposed to go on missions against orders, Miss Granger."

Ron was proud when Hermione simply lifted her chin defiantly, not bothering at all to appear apologetic. "We had to find out if Harry was here. And if Dumbledore knew for a fact that he wasn't, he could've told us and avoided this whole thing."

"But then…" Ron said slowly, "then we wouldn't have been here to save the Stockwells and recover the device."

There was a moment of profound silence where not one of the four spoke.

"He knew we'd come," Hermione realized. "He couldn't expressly order it because of the other professors, but he knew we were going to come anyway, and didn't stop us." She looked at Snape. "You've been giving him reports."

"Since I arrived two days ago," Snape allowed. "But there was no way to free them without exposing my position. However, if a rescue attempt were launched, and they were able to escape…"

Ron nodded, understanding. "Then your secret is still safe."

He felt the tips of his ears tingle as he realized he'd jumped to utterly the wrong conclusion about the man. "I…I'm sorry, Professor Snape. I misjudged you. I thought you'd betrayed us."

Snape's gaze never wavered. Ron had never known it to. "Well, Mr. Weasley, since that's exactly what I want everyone to think, I can hardly blame you for it, can I?"

Hermione shifted her weight a little and Ron glanced up. He could see Ursula over Hermione's shoulder; both of them looked as if they were beginning to notice their cramped, uncomfortable surroundings. "Will you come with us, Professor?" Hermione asked.

"No," Snape said simply. "My mission is not yet complete. I'm far more valuable as a spy than a guide. I trust that you can find your own way out?"

Ron nodded again. "What about them?" he asked, indicating the fallen Death Eaters.

"They saw only you," Snape replied. "There will be no reason to suspect me. And if I know Lucius Malfoy, these men won't be around long enough to remember any differently."

Ron felt a chill creep up his back and saw Hermione swallow out of the corner of his eye. This was war, and of course they'd seen death. But Lucius Malfoy was a level of evil they hadn't really had to contend with, and Ron was just as glad that they wouldn't have to today.

"Well," he said, rather awkwardly, "we're off, then. Good…uh…good luck, Professor Snape."

Snape nodded to him and then spun to leave, his black cloak swirling behind him. Ron turned back to Hermione and saw that she was holding a hand out to help pull him into the pipe. A smile tugging at his lips, Ron took it.

**VV**

It was late when the knock came at Ron's door, and he mumbled as he kicked at the blanket he'd just pulled over himself. It had somehow become tangled around him over the past ten minutes, though, and proved to be a frustrating adversary. By the time he'd freed himself so that he could rise and open the door, the person waiting on the other side beat him to it.

From the bed Ron watched as Hermione poked her head into the room timidly. "Ron? Are you asleep?"

"No," he said, sitting up now. "Not yet. What's going on?"

She crept into the room, turning to shut the door quietly behind her. When she turned to face him again he was perplexed by the way she wouldn't meet his eyes. And although the inadequate light from the room's solitary candle was too dim to reveal whether or not she was blushing, something about her uneasy stance told him she was embarrassed. "Is everything all right?" he asked.

"I…I was wondering," she said. "If you wouldn't mind, that is…could I…stay here tonight?"

"With you," she added unnecessarily when Ron didn't respond immediately. "It's just that…Oh, I hate it. I hate needing to be with someone, like a child's safety blanket, but when I'm with you the nightmares aren't as horrid. I…I feel safe."

A warm feeling suffused through him at her words. She wanted him to stay with her, again. And okay, so it was just to keep the nightmares away, but he could do that. It was a hell of a lot better than nothing. At least she was coming to _him_, and not…

No, he wasn't going to go there. He wasn't going to ask her….

Damn it, he was.

"What about Viktor?" he gritted out. He felt like a wretch for asking, especially on the heels of her revealing declaration, but he had to know. "Doesn't he?"

Hermione bit her lip. "Viktor's not…"

Ron waited for the end to her sentence. What wasn't Viktor? Not here? Not available?

"He's not you," she finished.

The pleasing warmth deepened into a soothing balm. She was here because she wanted to be. She'd come to him instead of Viktor, and he was amazed by how much better he felt. As revealing as it was about his own insecurities, he was overwhelmingly reassured to know that he had something with Hermione that Viktor could never have. He looked up to find Hermione watching him curiously, now. "Why would you think that?" she asked.

"Well," Ron started, then cleared his throat. "It's just….you know…you did spend all day yesterday with him."

"Only because _you_ left me behind," Hermione pointed out.

Ron opened his mouth to argue the point, but Hermione saw it. "Stop!" she said, laughing a little. "I didn't come here to get into a row. I…actually, I wanted to apologize."

"For what?" Ron wanted to know.

"For…well, for the argument in the dining hall the morning after we got here, and…things like that. I know that you were just trying to protect me. I knew that even then, I just…"

Here she paused, obviously forcing herself to keep her eyes on his, even though it was difficult while saying what she was. "I just…you're the only person I've ever cared about who hasn't left, or been taken from me, Ron. And it felt like you were trying to shake loose of me, and I reacted badly. I'm sorry."

"Hermione!" Stunned by her misconception, he shifted over toward her and sat on the edge of the bed. He pulled her down next to him and he faced her. "Hermione, that wasn't what I was trying to do at _all_."

"I know," she said with a fragile smile. "I do, now. After you let me go with Ursula to get the device at Captarum I realized that. Your trust in me was never an issue…I only thought it was. And it wasn't that you didn't want me with you, you just wanted to keep me safe."

Ron swallowed the thick lump in his throat, and couldn't keep himself from gently grazing the back of his fingers across her cheek. "That's all I ever wanted, 'Mione."

His touch encountered a tear, and he wiped it away. It really bothered him that even for a little while she'd thought he wanted to leave her behind. Something had to be done to rectify that. He had to…convince her, somehow. And he thought he knew how.

"You know," he said quietly, letting his hand fall to take one of hers. His other hand rose to rest on top. "You said something last night, in your sleep. You were starting to have another nightmare."

Hermione's gaze was fixed on his hands holding hers. "What did I say?" she whispered.

He traced a light pattern on the back of her hand with his thumbs. "You called my name out. And then you said 'don't leave me'."

He watched her face closely, saw the tears begin to collect in her eyes. "And do you want to know what I said?" he asked gently.

She nodded.

"I said I'd never leave you," Ron told her.

Finally, the water standing in her eyes became too heavy to remain. With her next blink two identically glistening tears spilled over onto her cheeks, then ran down her face to drop from her chin. "You can't promise something like that," she said softly.

"I do," he said firmly.

"The future could bring anything, Ron," she reminded him, but he could see that her heart wasn't in it. She wanted to believe him. He wanted her to.

He lifted one hand to her face again, a finger under her chin tilting her head up so that she'd look at him. Her eyes were sparkling with unshed tears, and she watched him with more emotion on her face than he'd ever seen. He'd seen passion before, when she spoke of things she felt strongly about. He'd seen fear, each time they faced down some new foe. He'd seen excitement, and amusement, courage and rebuke. But he'd never seen quite this expression before. Not aimed at him.

With a sense of wonder he looked back at her, his thumb inching up to skim lightly over her lips. She parted them on a gasp, and Ron stopped, teetering on the brink. He felt the yawing of potential before him. He sensed that…hell, he was pretty sure that if he kissed her right then, she'd kiss him back. And he really, really wanted to kiss her.

But not if he couldn't be sure _why_ she was returning his kiss, he realized. And he knew he'd need that. He couldn't accept anything less.

And so he let his hand continue up to the side of her head, his fingers curling back around her neck. When he propelled her toward him he simply rested his forehead against hers and closed his eyes.


	9. Chapter 9

Hermione's cries tore him from sleep.

Ron woke violently; the transition from slumber to being totally alert was nearly seamless. Before he was even fully aware that he was awake, he was pulling at her shoulders, yanking her up to him.

Hermione's arms slid around his neck reflexively and she clung to him, practically crawling into his lap in her desperate need to escape the nightmare. Over his shoulder her eyes remained squeezed shut. She trembled in his arms, breathing heavily. It had all happened in just seconds. One moment each was trapped in their own, individual subconscious, and the next they were huddling together on the bed.

Like that first night, after a few minutes he asked, "Do you want to talk about it?"

Also like that first night, he felt her shake her head and was struck again with disappointment that she wouldn't open up to him. That she wouldn't let him help her. And she was already physically distancing herself from him once more, disentangling herself from his embrace.

He felt like a git for wanting her to hold onto him for a few minutes longer; he knew she only did so when she was emotionally distressed. He should be glad that she'd regained enough self-balance to not need him for support. But all he could feel was the loss of her warmth against him.

She'd drawn back enough to look up at him, and Ron swam in the coffee-coloured depths of her eyes. He reached up a hand to wipe a silvery tear from her cheek with his thumb, and she shuddered. He swallowed as she gazed at him searchingly, as if looking for the answer to some monumental question within his own eyes. She was still so close…and the way she was looking at him…

Suddenly something was different. Somehow the moment had changed, like it had the past two nights. Like it had before they'd gone to sleep. Ron could feel it in the space between them; it felt charged with electricity. He knew his breathing had picked up, and he felt his heart trip when she leaned in uncertainly. Her face was tilted up toward his, like a flower to the sun. He dipped his own head instinctively, like a bee wanting to taste that flower.

Hermione's arms were still slung loosely around his shoulders, and he felt them tighten imperceptibly as she brought her lips to his. He tightened his own arms around her in response, and then suddenly the roof was blown off.

That was what it felt like, anyway…like the roof had been blown off of everything. Hermione was warm and soft, and still mostly in his lap. They were holding each other and she was kissing him, and nothing had ever felt so amazing.

Ron's senses were on overdrive; every inch of him was aware of every inch of her, from her hand on the nape of his neck, to the feel of her torso flush against his, to the softness of her lips. He concentrated on the lattermost, delirious with the kind of joy that can only be experienced by a person receiving their heart's desire.

Hermione had kissed him! Was kissing him even now! He could scarcely believe this was real; he'd fantasized about it so many times. What convinced him was the fact that this was _infinitely_ better than anything he'd imagined. He'd only been able to guess, before, how amazing it would be. Now he knew, and he was overwhelmed by the emotions coursing through him. Wanting to share them somehow, needing to know that she felt the same, he murmured her name against her lips. He wanted to tell her everything. All the years he'd spent denying to himself how he felt about her. All the time he'd spent secretly yearning for her. How many times he'd thought about _just this moment._ He wanted more than anything to tell her that he wanted her with him, always, but he couldn't tear himself away long enough to say the words. He never wanted her to stop.

But then she did. She drew back at the sound of her name, and looked at him in wide-eyed shock. Her mouth opened, but nothing came out.

Ron fought to hold on to the euphoria he'd been experiencing just a moment earlier, but felt his heart begin to sink despite his best efforts. Her expression could in no way be construed as a happy-face.

Hermione was gaping at him. She'd just made him the happiest person on the planet, and now she was looking at him as if she were horrified by what she'd done. Euphoria plummeted, crashing into despair.

_Don't say it,_ he thought. _Please don't take it back._

"Hermione," Ron started desperately, not wanting to hear her do just that.

"Oh!" Hermione interrupted. Her eyes filled with tears again. "Oh, Ron, I'm sorry!"

Ron couldn't breathe. "You're sorry?"

"I didn't…I mean I shouldn't have…that was wrong of me, I'm so sorry!" she stammered.

She suddenly seemed to realize that she was still in his arms, and jerked away as if his touch scorched her. Ron was left feeling abruptly alone, even though she was sitting there right next to him. But he could barely even feel it; he was painfully numb from her words. She hadn't meant to kiss him? She was sorry it happened? Had a couple of sentences from anyone else ever devastated him the way hers had? He thought not.

Ron took an agonized breath, holding it in for a moment before he could meet her eyes again. He mustn't let her see how crushed he was. Obviously, she didn't feel the same way he did. There was no point in exposing his feelings now.

He struggled for self-control, battling his own emotions. It was all the harder because for one brief, shining moment, he'd believed that it was all within his grasp. For a handful of heartbeats he'd caught a glimpse of everything he wanted, like snatching a peek of brilliant blue sky in between clouds on a grey, overcast day. The colour was always the more beautiful because of the drabness that surrounded it, and being with Hermione was like that. She was the bright spot in a world painted with ash.

But now the clouds had shifted again, casting everything into shadow. He didn't have her. That spot of blue sky was unattainable. Not meant for him. The way she wasn't for him. But he still loved her.

And because he still loved her, he was able to force his own considerable disappointment back down into concealment. He looked up at her with clear eyes and tried to reassure her. "It's all right," he said.

Hermione shook her head, denying his words as she was denying him. "No, it isn't. I just…it's this place," she said, tears spilling over as she grew more distraught. "It's Harry, and it's these bloody nightmares, and this whole war, and…and it was wrong of me to _use_ you for comfort."

She scrambled away from him when he reached out for her. "Hermione," he said, stumbling over momentary shock at her uncharacteristic curse and trying to focus on what was important. "You didn't use me."

"Yes I did! I've been doing it since we got here, using you to keep the nightmares away. And…and now, with…"

She gestured vaguely in his direction, and he took it to mean she was talking about the kiss. He was dismayed to realize she couldn't even speak the word. Still, she was operating under some pretty serious misconceptions, so he tried to dispel his own pain in order to help her deal with hers. "Hermione," he said again, "It's all right."

Hermione shook her head again. "No, it's not, Ron. It's unconscionable. You, of all people. When you mean more to me than -"

She stopped, swallowed. She shoved at the mattress beneath her, sliding across it until she was standing on the floor. She swayed a little, appearing indecisive now that she'd attained her short-term goal of removing herself from the bed, and from him.

Alarmed, Ron shifted to follow her. "Where are you going?"

Hermione stretched out a hand, her palm facing him in an unmistakable entreaty to stop. "I'm going to go for a walk, or something. I just need to be alone for awhile."

Ron's heart struck bottom. Not only did she not return his feelings, but now she couldn't get away from him fast enough. He was too hurt to press the issue, and didn't move when she turned and walked away from him.

**VV**

Long hours passed as Ron waited, wide awake, for Hermione to return.

For the first hour or so he'd gone over everything again in his mind, replaying the entire event. The nightmare, again. Waking her up, holding her as the terror and adrenaline slowly released her. Hating himself for not being able to help her, and for wanting her to need him. Then that moment of tenderness and uncertainty before she kissed him, and the bruising pain when she ripped herself away. He could still feel that; it was an ache in his heart.

When he couldn't stand reliving it anymore, he started trying to figure out what to say to her, when she got back. Yeah, it hurt like hell that she didn't feel for him what he felt for her, but that didn't mean he wanted her to hurt, too. He had to convince her that there was a difference between using someone, and needing support from a friend. As far as he was concerned, that's what all of this had been about. That's why he was sharing a bed with her, so he could be there for her when she couldn't handle the nightmares alone. She hadn't forced him into that. That's why he held her when she woke crying and thrashing in the sheets, because he was her friend, and he couldn't bear to see her in pain if he could help ease it.

The problem was that he'd taken her kiss to mean more than it had. But then again, he reminded himself, she didn't know that. As far as she knew, he felt nothing for her but friendship. And he could force himself back into that role. Be _just_ her friend, if he had to. He'd had seven years' worth of experience there, after all, and only thirty seconds or so of anything more. So it shouldn't be that hard. Should it?

It didn't matter. He'd do whatever it took. Just as soon as she came back.

Only, she wasn't coming back.

He waited forever, it seemed. He watched the colours of the sky bleed into one another as dawn approached. Black changed into navy blue, and then the hue brightened slowly, shade by shade, until it was nearly full daylight. As the first rays of the sun stole into the room, Ron rose. He dressed quickly and went to look for Hermione. After searching for nearly a quarter of an hour, he found her in the ballroom.

Though the fireplace in the main parlor downstairs was the most commonly used, the grand mantle in the mansion's ballroom was certainly the largest. It was used by the Order when there were large groups and / or strike teams that needed to floo together. Its formidable presence took up a large chunk of the far wall; winding sculptures of human and animal forms graced the pillars on either side, matching similar motifs on the walls and up near the ceiling.

It was seldom needed, however, and the ballroom had taken on other purposes. The room was so spacious that several partitions had been placed, sectioning spaces off for specific functions. One corner was a training area, where some sort of schooling still went on for those who were too young to fight on their own, yet. Another was devoted to strategy and planning. And so on, and so on.

One section dealt primarily with briefing field operatives who were about to go out on assignment, and this is where Ron found his friend.

When she'd left him hours before, she'd been wearing her usual sleepwear: a too-large t-shirt and thin cotton pajama pants. Since then she must have outfitted herself from one of the supply rooms, because now she was dressed for an outing. She wore brown corduroy pants that emphasized the length of her legs, and a fuzzy, striped sweater of the type she seemed most fond. A light jacket fell to her upper thighs, and her hair was pulled back into an absent bun. Ron stopped dead in his tracks as he watched her stuff supplies into a knapsack before yanking the drawstring shut and swinging it up onto her shoulder.

"What are you doing?" he asked, once he could find his voice.

Hermione looked up at him, startled. She recovered quickly, though, and started past him. "I'm going on a mission," she said.

"The hell you are," Ron replied, grabbing hold of her free arm. "You're not ready."

Hermione faced him down, her eyes flashing dangerously. "Don't you dare try to tell me what to do, Ron Weasley. And who do you think you are, judging whether or not I'm capable of carrying out a mission?"

"I'm your best friend," he shot back, feeling a sense of déjà vu. It was just like their conversation in the Dining Hall before he'd gone back to the house to look for clues. "And I'm also the bloke who's been waking you up from nightmares all week. You're not ready."

She jerked out of his grip, but didn't meet his gaze. "I'll be fine."

"Hermione," Ron started.

"I've got to go, Ron," she interrupted. "I'm scheduled to leave by port key in just a few minutes. I don't have time to sit here and have a row with you about it."

"Fine," he said. "I'll go with you."

"No, you won't."

"You can't stop me," he said confrontationally.

Hermione changed tactics. She knew very well how argumentative he could be, and she didn't have the time it would take to hash it out that way, right now. So she tried simple honesty. "Look, Ron," she said. "This is something I need to do…alone. I need to prove to myself that I'm not useless, because that's the way I've been feeling ever since the Stockwell house. Like I can't make a difference. And I…I need the time to think."

Ron closed his mouth, his temper draining away. Trepidation replaced it. "Is this…is this about last night? Because listen, Hermione -"

"It's not," Hermione said quickly. Too quickly.

Fresh hurt lanced through him. She was leaving, at least partly, to get away from him.

Something of what he felt must have shown on his face, because Hermione's careful expression transformed into a more compassionate one. "Ron," she said, stepping closer to him. "I swear that it's not because I don't want you with me. I _do_, and that's the problem. I've been leaning too heavily on you, ever since…ever since the house, and Harry. Longer. Maybe even since my parents died."

"But you haven't!" Ron protested. "I mean, that's what friends are for, Hermione. They're supposed to be there for each other! It's _okay_ to lean on me."

"Maybe," Hermione said darkly, "but not to use you."

Ron wanted to growl with frustration. "You didn't _use_ me. Where are you even getting this from?" Remembering his thought process that morning, while waiting for her in bed, he brightened. "Look, there's a difference between using someone, and letting them help you. Letting them care about you."

"And there's a difference between letting yourself be comforted, and abusing your friend's compassion," Hermione retorted. When Ron opened his mouth again Hermione held up her hand. "Ron, stop. We're not going to agree on this. And I don't have time to argue about it. I've got to go."

She turned to leave, and appeared disgruntled when he followed her. Two of his strides equaled about four of hers, so it didn't take very long for him to catch up to her. She sighed in exasperation, but said nothing as he accompanied her to the port key room. They must have made a spectacle of themselves, marching off while obviously irritated with each other, because they received several curious looks in the corridors.

When they arrived, Hermione stopped in the hallway with her hand on the knob to the door. "You stay here," she commanded. Then she relented and her expression softened a little. "I'll see you when I get back."

"You're mad if you think I'm letting you go alone," he replied almost conversationally. The whole way down here, all he'd been able to think about was their bed, empty and alone without her, forever. He refused to let that happen, he just refused.

Hermione sighed again, opening the door. "Ron," she said, trying to sound reasonable, "you don't have a choice. I can't stay. Dumbledore thinks they've gotten the device to work, and needs me to verify the coordinates of several of Voldemort's bases."

Ron crossed his arms, hoping that the confident body language would mask the tendrils of fear that were snaking up around his heart at the thought of Hermione anywhere near Voldemort. "I'm coming with you," he said again.

"No, Ron, you're not!" Hermione cried, losing the fine sheen of control she'd worked so hard to keep up in front of him.

The bespeckled port key operator stood at the center of the room guarding a rather ratty-looking quill, and he looked from Ron to Hermione and back again nervously. "Um, Miss?" he asked.

"I know you want to go to protect me," Hermione continued, ignoring the operator. "I know you want to keep me safe, but you can't _always_ be there, Ron."

"But I…" Ron stopped. He couldn't say what he really wanted to. _I **want** to always be there._

Hermione went on, "I've got to do this for myself, and I need you to be here, where you're safe. I can't lose you too, Ron. Not after Harry. Not at all. Don't you see?" she asked, stepping closer to him. "I figured my dream out. It's because of you, Ron. I keep seeing those children as your family. I keep seeing your face on that little boy… Don't you see that I could never live with myself if anything happened to you because you were protecting me?"

"Miss?" the port key operator tried again, sounding aggrieved.

"And do you think I could stand it if anything happened to you?" Ron shot back heatedly. "You think I could live with myself if I let you go alone now, and something happened because I _wasn't_ there, where I should've been? Because I couldn't."

"This is what we do, Ron," Hermione exclaimed, a bit hypocritically. "We're all in danger all the time. Why is my mission any more important than anyone else's? Why worry any more about me than any other operative?

"Because I'm not in love with any other operative, I'm in love with you!" Ron shouted.

The moment he said the words, he wished he could call them back again. This was not how he'd wanted to say it. Not here, not now. Not as part of an argument.

And after last night, he'd been resolved to never say them at all. Hermione was his friend, and that was the only way she saw him. She was too important a piece of his life to risk because his feelings ran deeper than hers.

But now they'd slipped out despite himself. Slipped out? Hell, they'd been forced out. Shot out as if from a canon. Out into the room where they were irretrievable.

Ron had clenched his eyes shut the moment the last word left his mouth. Now he opened them again, to see what kind of havoc he'd just wreaked upon his life. Hermione was still standing before him, bag slung over her shoulder. She was staring at him with huge, round eyes, and her mouth had dropped open again. "You…what?" she managed. Her words were incredulous, but breathy, and something in the sound of them snagged his attention.

He opened his mouth. He wasn't sure what he was going to say, but he sure had to say something. What came out was, "Don't go."

"Miss!" the port key operator said for the third time, urgency thick in his voice. "You've only got ten seconds left!"

Hermione jerked around and looked at the quill, then back at Ron with grief in her eyes. Grief and panic and…something else. "Ron," she said helplessly, and he could tell that she at least wished she could stay and finish the conversation, but there was no choice.

He knew there was no choice but for her to turn around and grab the quill. As he watched her disappear, he knew there'd been no choice but for her to leave him standing there alone without any kind of answer to his declaration.

He knew that. But oh, it hurt.


	10. Chapter 10

The next two weeks were an eternity for Ron.

Minutes felt like hours. Hours felt like days. The days stretched into weeks, and there was still no word from Hermione. Details of missions were need to know only, and so he was left in limbo, able only to wonder where she was, if she was all right, when she was coming back.

If she was still having the nightmares.

He hoped not. He was having a hard enough time adjusting to sleeping without her, and he wasn't battling the demons she was. He couldn't stand the thought of her waking up screaming in the middle of the night somewhere, cold and alone in the dark, with no one there to comfort her.

More than anything, he never again wanted her to wake up in the middle of the night, cold and alone in the dark without him.

And spending each of those endless nights by himself, he'd come to understand that he never wanted to fall asleep without her again, either. He'd only lain beside her for a handful of nights, but it was long enough for him to learn that it was what he wanted, for always.

He felt the distinct absence of her presence at all times, but did his best to occupy his thoughts with work. It was harder at night. That was when he missed her the most. Each evening when he slipped beneath the blankets on their bed – he couldn't stop thinking of it as 'theirs' – he tried in vain to ignore how alone he felt there, without her. The bed felt too big. His arms felt too empty.

With nothing to do but lie there in the dark and stare up at the ceiling, thoughts of Hermione intruded and filled his senses. And each night he came to the same realization: Over the past seven years, they had become part of each other. Him, Harry and Hermione. Existing without one of them in his life was like suddenly losing an arm.

Having Harry back helped. He'd arrived on foot a week ago, seven days after Hermione had left by port key. The boy who lived had somehow triumphed again, although it had taken him over a week to recover from his injuries he'd sustained – apparently while locked in some sort of interdimentional bubble with Draco Malfoy – and get back safely. Harry's return healed something in Ron, but not completely. He was still missing a part of himself.

The whole mansion continued to ride the wave of exhilaration Harry's arrival had caused, Ron included, but it didn't take away his anxiety over Hermione. She was all he could think about. He kept seeing her face in his mind, in that moment right before she left. The expression in her eyes haunted him…what did it mean? Now that she knew how he felt about her, what did she think of him? Did she miss him, at all?

His missing her was an ache that never fully went away. It flared up at the most unexpected times, constantly distracting him. At all times, at least part of his mind was devoted to rehearsing what he would say when she finally returned. He contemplated, at length, taking back what he'd said. If he told her he didn't mean it, that he'd only said it to keep her from going, she'd be angry at first, but then things would go back to the way they'd been. She'd still be in his life.

But the truth was, he didn't think he could do it. He didn't think he could lie to her, not about that. And a larger part of him simply didn't want to. He'd felt this way for such a long time that it was a relief to finally just say it. To have gotten it off his chest. Ultimately, he decided to stick with the truth. He decided that just about as many times a day as he decided to recant his declaration. He didn't know what to do. He couldn't think when he was in such a state, and he waited half in anticipation, half with trepidation for Hermione's return.

And so always, half of his attention was fixed on the comings and goings of operatives. He spent every moment waiting for her to come back, so he shouldn't have really been all that surprised when Neville Longbottom came running into the dining hall two weeks later, excitedly telling everyone that Hermione had returned.

Ron froze. He shouldn't have been taken by surprise, but his heart leaped up into his throat, anyway, as Neville went on to say that he heard it from Colin Creevey who'd seen her exiting the main parlor himself, moments ago.

Immediately the room began buzzing with conversation. Harry's return the week before had been a cause for great relief among the Order. Now, with the last of the 'golden trio' safely home, faith was restored and spirits were high.

Ron felt all of their eyes on him, but for once he didn't care. He didn't even pause.

He whirled, grabbing Neville by the arms. "Where is she?" he asked urgently. "Neville, where did she go?"

Neville's mouth opened and closed like landed grouper. Surprise had opened his eyes as wide as they would go, but when Ron shook him he seemed to regain his composure. "She…Colin said she was headed to Dumbledore's office. Probably to debrief."

Of course. Ron immediately unhanded Neville and bolted from the dining hall at a dead run, his dinner forgotten. Heart racing, his pulse pounded in time with the thundering of his feet as he dashed down the corridor toward the second floor landing. He was going so fast that he couldn't stop when he reached the intersection of the three hallways, and he skidded into the wall.

He managed to keep his feet, but barely. Panting, Ron looked up and there she was. Halfway down the hall, heading away from him. The sight of her wrecked him. She was a balm for all of his wounds, and yet his stomach knotted instantly with nerves. He couldn't delay. He couldn't wait for her to debrief with Dumbledore. He couldn't wait.

"Hermione!" he called, and pushed himself away from the wall. The shove gave him a kick-start down the corridor, and he jogged toward her.

Hermione had just placed her hand on the doorknob to Dumbledore's office, but turned at the sound of her name. Now, seeing Ron trot toward her, Hermione abandoned the door and headed back toward him.

They met in the middle of the corridor, and Ron had to restrain himself from hugging her. No matter what happened next, he was just so glad to see she was all right. Indeed, she looked remarkably better than she had when she left. The dark circles under her eyes had faded, and she looked bright and alert. Her eyes were shining their warmest brown at him, and she licked her lips anxiously.

Ron's nerves returned full force as he pulled up short before her. He stood there awkwardly for a moment, unsure of how to begin now that the moment had finally arrived. Fortunately for him, Hermione was not so recalcitrant.

She dove right in. "Did you mean it?"

Ron couldn't breathe. Suddenly everything came down to this. Everything he'd been waiting for, everything he'd been dreading. Everything he'd ever wanted. There were a hundred possible outcomes, depending upon what happened in this moment.

If he had hopes – any at all – of returning their friendship to what it had been, this would be the time for him to take back what he said.

But when he looked into her eyes, he saw something…an unfamiliar gleam that hooked his attention more effectively than if a million galleons were to abruptly begin raining down from the ceiling. It sent a delicious shiver racing across his skin and his heart leaped with sudden hope. It was then that he realized there'd never really been any question of what he would say. He'd known all along.

He took a deep breath, his gaze never wavering from that new, exciting look in her eyes as he laid it all on the line. "Yes," he said.

Hermione exhaled, and only then did he realize she'd been holding her breath. It came out somewhere in between a gasp and a sigh, and a smile trembled on her lips as her eyes welled up with tears. In one motion, she slipped the strap of her knapsack over her shoulder, letting the bag fall to the floor as she launched herself at him.

Ron staggered back a step, absorbing the impact as she threw her arms around his neck. "Oh, Ron," she breathed in his ear, and that told him everything he needed to know.

His arms had automatically gone around her waist when she'd landed on him, and now he tightened them, lifting her off her feet and just holding on. He buried his face in the crook of her neck and breathed her in, smiling when her out-of-control hair tickled his nose.

Hermione was still doing her best to squeeze the life out of him, but he was too happy to care about trivial things like oxygen. And what she said next sent him soaring.

"The whole time I was gone, I was so afraid that by the time I got back you'd have gone off on another mission, or that you'd change your mind, or that you hadn't really meant it at all, or…"

She broke off, pulling back from him a little. Ron gently set her on her feet as she looked up at him earnestly. "I wanted to stay," she said. "I'm so sorry for having to leave like that, without saying anything. There was just no time!"

"I know," Ron reassured her. "I knew you had to go. It's all right."

"It's not all right!" Hermione protested, looking urgently into his eyes. "I should've found a way… I should have at least told you that I love you, too."

Ron went very still. He could feel his heart throbbing in his chest, but everything else suddenly seemed frozen. He actually took a step back in his shock. Hermione's brow furrowed at his reaction and she mirrored his step, advancing as he retreated. "Ron?"

Ron grappled with her words. Did she mean…? But no, she just said that she should have _said_ it. That wasn't necessarily the same thing.

Once again, Hermione appeared able to interpret from his expression what he was thinking. She smiled up at him; the look on her face was similar to the one she wore every time she'd ever had to tell him something he should have already known. Only infinitely more tender. "Ron. I always have."

He stared back down at her. She loved him. Hermione loved him.

Ron's heart swelled, and he felt everything inside him flutter. It only intensified when Hermione reached a hand up to caress his face, starting at his temple and tracing lightly down over his cheek. Overwhelmed, Ron lowered his head as Hermione's hand altered trajectory, sliding up to drape itself over the back of his neck. Her other hand came to rest on his arm as he wrapped both of his around her waist again.

He felt the heat between them, and the history. Seven years of friendship converged on this point. It was new, and it was exciting, but at the same time it was just Ron and Hermione.

She drew him down to her, and there was nothing awkward about it at all. It was as if they'd kissed a million times before, and knew all of the right moves. Ron thought, briefly, that if Hermione had daydreamed about it anywhere near as much as he had, then they had a substantial amount of accumulated fantasy-kisses between them.

And then there were no thoughts, none at all, because Hermione was pressed up against him, and Hermione's arms were around him, and Hermione's lips were fused to his, and there was nothing else in the world that mattered, anywhere, save them. With something that was half her name, half a moan, Ron clutched her even more tightly to him, and kissed her the way he'd been wanting to ever since he could remember.

Hermione sighed, opening her mouth, and Ron couldn't resist the invitation. He tasted her lips tentatively, finding them as sweet and tempting as he'd imagined. Hermione returned the favor, her tongue darting into his mouth and triggering all sorts of reactions from his body.

Ron had kissed before, but not by much. It had always been a peck on the cheek, with the occasional fumble that landed on his lips. He wasn't even sure that they'd all qualified as kisses. What with school, and the war with Voldemort approaching, there'd never really been much opportunity for any of them, save Harry's mishap with Cho Chang in fifth year. What experience Ron _did_ have came mostly from relatives at holidays (who definitely did not count) and giggling girls at the school balls he'd been dragged to. None of them had ever been the one girl he'd really wanted to kiss, and so he hadn't bothered pursuing them.

None of them had been with an open mouth. None had been anything like this. This was amazing. This was Hermione.

This was heaven.

He thought that he might have gone on kissing her forever, if he hadn't felt the wetness on her face. If he hadn't tasted the salt of her tears. She was crying.

Ron hated to end the most perfect, amazing moment of his life, but he knew enough to realize it wasn't exactly a good sign when the girl you're snogging is weeping at the same time. Remembering Cho Chang for the second time in as many minutes, Ron forced himself to break the kiss. His concerned eyes searched Hermione's face.

"Hermione?" he asked. "What is it? What's wrong?"

Hermione only cried harder, but to his relief she threw her arms around his neck again. At least she didn't appear to think this was a mistake, like she had the night before she left. Slightly mollified, but still a little worried, he decided to wait her out.

It appeared to be the right decision, because after a minute or two her body stopped quaking, and the sobbing subsided. Her head was resting on his shoulder, her face turned in toward his neck. Ron, who had held her through the entire incident, thought it was finally safe to ask, "All right, there?"

Hermione laughed, weakly. "I'm sorry," she said into his neck. "I just…with everything that's been going on…the war and all, and Harry, and I was afraid that I'd ruined any chance for us, after wanting it for so long, and…"

"It's okay," Ron breathed into her hair, speaking more to himself than anyone. "Everything's okay, now. You're back. Harry's back, and everything's - "

Hermione gasped and jerked back, staring up at him with wide, shocked eyes. Sudden, fierce hope blazed in them. "Harry?" she breathed.

Ron looked down at her, confused at first. "Yeah, he made it back last week…everybody knows…I thought. You mean you didn't know?"

Hermione was shaking. Her breath caught in her throat. Overwhelmed by relief, she closed her eyes, displacing the tears that had collected there again. Twin trails of silvery tears slid down her cheeks.

Ron watched helplessly, berating himself for assuming she'd known. She shouldn't have had it sprung on her like that.

Suddenly her knees buckled, and he reacted instantly to catch her. She ended up in his arms again, her head once more resting on his shoulder. Her voice wavered when she explained, "I was deep."

Ron swore to himself. That explained it. Operatives who were 'deep' were under cover. They were cut off from all communication so as to minimize risk of discovery in the field. Hermione had been under the assumption this whole time that Harry was still missing.

She dissolved into relieved sobs, and Ron held her tightly as she broke down. He understood exactly how she felt. The day Harry had returned, still bruised and weak from his ordeal, Ron had gone back to his room that night and shaken uncontrollably for ten solid minutes. And only now, when Hermione was in his arms again, did anxiety release him. Only now did he feel fully at peace. The edge to everything that had been eating away at him for the past two weeks was finally gone.

Hermione could feel it, too. She clung to him, sobbing. "Thank God," she said, so fundamentally relieved that she'd reverted to muggle exclamations. "Oh, thank God."

Ron held her until she calmed again, and then pulled back gently, looking into her eyes. "Do you want to see him?"

Hermione could manage only a vigorous nod; then she let him transfer an arm around her shoulders as he steered her toward the ballroom.

Once there, she picked his dark head out immediately from the throng of people gathered in the schooling section. Harry was surrounded by a group of some of the younger students, telling the story of his fight with the Death Eaters, again. It had been an epic battle, involving a trip to an ethereal plane and spells the students hadn't even dreamed of yet, and they made him tell the story at least twice a day. Currently, he was demonstrating one of the blocking spells he'd used, but he looked up when he heard his name.

Hermione was running toward him, tears streaming down her face. Harry turned just in time to catch her as she flew into his arms. She squeezed him tightly, and he returned the hug as Ron strolled up at a more leisurely pace.

"Oh, Harry, you're all right!" Hermione breathed. "I was so…we all thought…"

Hearing the genuine anguish in her voice, Harry stroked a calming hand over her hair. "I know," he said. "For awhile there, _I_ thought I was a goner."

Hermione pulled back and looked up at him, as if to reassure herself that he really _was_ standing there, alive and well. Her expression was a study in emotion as she looked from Harry to Ron, and back again. Then she flung herself at them both, an arm around each boy's neck. "You're both okay. You're both all right, and here, and we're all okay."

Ron cleared his throat. Hermione's obvious sentiment was getting to him, as it seemed to be getting to Harry. Their eyes met, and the next thing Ron knew they were all three hugging…Hermione's presence making it much easier than it would've been if it had been just the two boys.

As it was, it felt thoroughly natural. Thoroughly right. They were all together again, the way they were meant to be. And in that moment, Ron felt invincible.


	11. Chapter 11

The next few hours were a whirlwind. After quickly eating, Hermione left to debrief with Dumbledore. Ron longingly watched her leave, and then turned with a sigh to finishing his duties for the night as quickly as possible. By the time he finished settling in the new arrivals, working out the Prefect patrol schedule for the next week, and breaking up a minor squabble between two houses from Beauxbatons, most everyone else had gone off to bed.

Ron yawned widely. There wasn't much he wanted more than to go to bed right now, himself…except for one thing. He had to find Hermione.

All night long, he kept remembering their too-short encounter in the hallway, reliving every moment of it. And while it had been wonderful…okay, amazing…okay, the best few minutes of his life, it didn't feel finished. Life – as it had a habit of doing – had butted in and interrupted their moment. And Ron, for one, had waited too damn long to not see this through. There were too many things he still needed to say; there was too much he still needed to hear from her.

And so instead of turning down the hallway that led to his own room, he began searching for Hermione.

He was doomed to disappointment. Everywhere he could think of to look for her – the library, the ballroom, the dining room – he had no luck. Each room was dim and deserted, devoid of people.

It was with a heavy heart that he returned to his room half an hour later. He hadn't been able to find Hermione anywhere. He felt unfinished, incomplete and restless.

He felt all of those things until he walked into his room and found Hermione in his bed.

She was sitting up on what he'd come to regard as 'her side', engaging in some light reading. Which – since it was Hermione – meant that her legs were pinned under a massive book.

Ron couldn't have been more surprised. "Hermione!"

As she looked up at him with a smile, he noticed that she'd changed into her pajama bottoms and one of his old t-shirts. He realized that she'd settled in for the night. Here. In his room. She expected to stay with him again.

Hermione's smile was slightly quizzical. "Where've you been all this time?"

"Uh," Ron said. Then, realizing that his response had lacked a certain panache – as well as an answer – he elaborated. "I took over some daily stuff. With both you and Harry gone, for awhile I really…needed to keep my mind occupied."

Hermione's smile dimmed. "I'm sorry, Ron. I hate that I made you worry."

Ron shook his head, dismissing her concern. "It doesn't matter. You're back, both of you."

He glanced at his feet, trying to find the words to begin. "I've been looking for you," he finally confessed. "All over. I…uh, didn't expect to find you here."

To his surprise, Hermione blushed. "Oh, um…I'm sorry. I shouldn't have…I'll go."

Ron was alarmed when Hermione began to scoot off the bed. "No!" he shouted, a bit more forcefully than was necessary if her startled expression was any indication. He tried it again with less volume. "No. It's okay. Stay. I mean I'm glad…that you're here, that is."

Her smile tentatively returned. "Oh," she said, visibly happy. "All right." She stopped making her way to the edge, and just sat there in the middle of the bed, looking soft and desirable.

He abruptly seemed to be having more trouble than usual forming complete sentences. "It's just that it's…a little different now. I wasn't sure that you'd still… I mean, I didn't know if you'd want…

Hermione's smile turned gentle. "I'm here, aren't I?"

Now it was Ron's turn to blush. His heart was expanding, again, and he returned her smile with a lopsided grin. "Yeah, you are."

It was sort of odd, how shy they suddenly were around each other. Odd, but wonderful, too. Ron stammered that he had to go and change for bed, and Hermione nodded, returning to her book while she waited for him.

When he returned a little while later, he found the room dim, and Hermione was under the covers – sans book – on her side.

Feeling more awkward than he had ever since that first night on the sofa, Ron peeled back the sheet and blanket and slid in next to her. He was surprised when Hermione rolled over and turned to him, snuggling up against his side and draping an arm across his chest. "I thought you were asleep," he said softly.

"Hmm mmm," she answered in the negative, resting her head just above his shoulder with a sigh.

Ron wrapped his arm around her waist and turned his head so that his lips brushed her forehead, closing his eyes so as to better savor the sensation of having her in his arms again. It was amazing, how right this felt. In this position he could smell the sweet, clean fragrance of her hair. She filled his arms, warming him, and once again he was struck by how much he seemed to need this, with her.

It was as if Hermione were reading his thoughts. "I missed this," she murmured.

It was on the tip of Ron's tongue to share that he had, too, but Hermione had gone on. "I couldn't sleep, the whole time I was gone."

He felt a pang of regret that he hadn't been able to be there for her. "The nightmares?" he asked, tightening his embrace.

He sensed her shaking her head. "No. Once I figured out what they meant, what the root of them was, I was able to deal with them. They're mostly gone, now. And now that I know Harry's safe, too…well, I don't think I'll be having any bad dreams, tonight."

She shifted, and he glanced down to find her looking up at him seriously. "No, I…I couldn't sleep because I missed you. Missed being here with you," she said. Though he couldn't see her clearly due to the lack of light in the room, he felt certain that she was blushing. She was certainly embarrassed; he could tell from the way she suddenly dropped her gaze and began fiddling with the border of the blanket.

Ron's heart tripped, and he wondered if being in love might be bad for his health. It seemed that he was suffering from a lot of cardiac irregularities, lately. Somehow, though, he couldn't seem to muster any concern for it. Not when it felt so wonderful.

"Me too," he confessed, earning himself a soul-searching look from Hermione. "This…with you and me, it feels right."

"Yeah," Hermione agreed tenderly.

Still absurdly shy, but desperately needing to have this conversation, Ron plunged onward. "You said…before, you said that you've always…"

Hermione smiled again, wrapped up in the newness of it all. "Yes."

Ron swallowed, trying to figure out how to convey what he was actually trying to ask. "I mean, you _told me_ that you always have, but you didn't actually…you know, say it."

Now Hermione stared at him blankly, not understanding.

"Would you…I mean, could you…say it?" Ron stuttered on. "I just need…"

Finally, Hermione got it. She propped herself up on one elbow and looked down at him. "I love you," she interrupted, putting an end to his suffering. The hand that had been resting on his chest now moved up to lightly brush a lock of hair from his forehead. "Ron Weasley," she continued in a whisper, "I've always loved you."

That was it, Ron decided. Love was going to kill him. His heart was racing triple time, and his sigh was so huge that he thought his lungs would burst. He reached up to grasp her hand with his own. "I love you, too," he said back wonderingly.

Never taking her eyes off his, Hermione leaned down very slowly and brushed her lips against his. The butterfly-soft kiss was maddening, just enough to entice him, but too feathery light to be truly satisfying. Needing more, Ron used his elbow to push himself up so that his lips pressed against hers firmly.

Hermione made a surprised sound, but didn't pull away. After a brief hesitation she slid her arm around him, freeing him to place his hand on her waist again. He drew her against him, and she came willingly to lie half on top of him.

Some time later, they managed to tear themselves away from each other's lips long enough to settle into sleeping positions again. Hermione's head once more rested on Ron's shoulder, and his arms wrapped around her comfortably. "So," Ron said, clearing his throat when he found his voice to be a bit rusty. "Always, eh? Seems like you could have said something before now, then."

Hermione giggled at his teasing tone, sounding very un-Hermione-like. "And when was I supposed to tell you? Back in first year, when I was a 'nightmare'? In third, when we were fighting all the time? Or maybe in fourth, when you were drooling all over Fleur Decleur?"

"I wasn't drooling," Ron said uncomfortably. "Besides, _you're_ the one who went to the bloody Ball with Viktor Krum. And after I asked you!"

Hermione's jaw dropped. "After you _asked_ me?!" She sounded scandalized by his version of events. "In what province does 'Hey Hermione, you're a girl. You could go with one of us!' constitute a serious invitation?!"

"Okay, okay," Ron said hurriedly, not overly anxious to begin that argument again. "The point is, you chose someone else over me."

"The _point_ was," Hermione contested, "that all you had to do was ask me from the beginning. Because you _wanted_ to. But you were too thick to realize how I felt about you, and couldn't see it."

"And don't even say that you weren't thick about it," Hermione said immediately, sensing that he was about to disagree. "I even _told_ you to ask me first, the next time, and you never did." She looked up at him, and her expression said 'so there'.

"Besides," she went on, obviously taking his silence as unconditional surrender on the matter, "why didn't _you_ ever say anything before now?"

Ron shrugged self consciously. "You were one of my best friends," he said. "It took awhile before I saw you as anything else. And after I realized it, I didn't think that you…" Ron paused, thinking about what she'd just said, and remembering her parting shot at the end of their infamous Yule Ball row. "Okay, you're right, I was a bit thick about it."

He joined Hermione in brief laughter. When it died down, Ron realized how much easier it was to discuss certain things with her, now that he knew she returned his feelings. "I've...uh, always beena little jealous of him," he admitted.

"Of Viktor?" Hermione asked. Then she arched a sarcastic eyebrow at him. "You don't say."

Ron felt his face heat up. "It was that obvious?"

"Oh, it was infuriating! You were so irrationally upset that I went with him – I mean honestly, 'fraternizing with the enemy'? – and yet you were utterly blind to _why _it bothered you. I spent so much of that year being frustrated with you."

Ron grinned. "You spend a lot of your time being frustrated with me."

"I can't deny that," she replied a little wryly, but her lips twitched with amusement.

Braver now that he was secure of her feelings, he thought it safe to say, "But that's why you love me, right?"

"One of the more perplexing reasons," she allowed, affecting a mock-stern expression.

"Same goes," Ron said with a smile.

Hermione returned it, and then stretched up for another kiss. It was even more tender than the first, and Ron felt his stomach do a lazy roll over. When she pulled away, he struggled for words.

"Hermione, I… Merlin, I don't know how to say it."

"How to say what?" Hermione asked, a tinge of worry in her voice.

"Oh, nothing…nothing bad," he reassured her. "It's just that you…I mean us…the way I feel. It's more than I can say, and I'm so frustrated because I want to tell you everything, but I feel like I can't say it right. Like I can't make you understand."

"Ron," she replied softly, "you don't need any words. I already understand, because I feel the same way."

Love washed through him, making him feel bold and reckless. He suddenly felt like doing something daring. Something brave. Something to celebrate the best day of his life. And he knew just the thing.

"Hermione," he started.

Picking up on the change in his tone, Hermione cocked her head. "Yes?"

Ron gave her his most charming look. "Would you do something for me?"

Hermione smiled back, but a little wariness crept into her tone. "Well…depending upon what it is…"

Ron scooted closer to her, nuzzling the side of her neck. Finally able to indulge himself, he dipped his head and kissed the hollow of her throat, then planted a string of tiny kisses along her collarbone. He smiled when he felt her shiver. "It's something I've been wanting to do for ages," he replied. "And I think now is the perfect time."

Visibly nervous, now, Hermione cleared her throat. "You…you do?"

He eased back a little, looking soulfully into her eyes. "Trust me."

**VV**

Ten minutes later, he was still trying to convince her.

"Ron, I don't think I'm ready to…"

"Yes you are," he interrupted. "You'll be fine, trust me."

"I can't do it, I'm too scared."

"There's nothing to be scared of. It won't hurt, I promise."

"I can't."

"You have to, that was the deal. You can't go back on the deal, Hermione."

Her voice was laced with anxiety. "It's just that it's so…long. And I don't know if I can…" She broke off, panting a little from exertion.

"You're almost there, Hermione. Oh, you've got it! Now just relax and lean forward a little…"

"Ron, I really don't think I can do this."

Ron was nearly frantic with excitement. He couldn't allow her to back out, now. Momentum was the key. "It's too late now, Hermione, you're already on. Nothing left to do now but enjoy the ride."

"Ron…"

She was close to caving, now, he could tell. It was time to use the secret weapon. "Come on, love. For me?"

Hermione's voice softened. "Oh, you just called me…" She sighed. "All right. Just don't…don't let me fall, okay?"

Ron smiled. "Never."

Taking a deep breath, Hermione steeled herself and relaxed her grip on the hard length between her thighs. Then, she leaned forward as Ron had indicated. The result was immediate, and she couldn't hold back a squeal.

In fact, her high-pitched shriek lasted the whole way down.

At the bottom of the stairs, Ron grinned hugely as Hermione slid down the banister. He'd done it himself just a few minutes before, but he hadn't really believed he'd be able to talk Hermione into it.

Now, as she rode down the rail screeching like a banshee, Ron laughed and held out his arms. She hit him like a ton of bricks and landed on top of him when they struck the marble floor. Ron's back absorbed the brunt of the impact, with Hermione cushioned safely in his embrace.

Ron gasped for air, finding it difficult to do so while laughing at the same time. Hermione seemed to be suffering from the same problem, though she was doing a much better job at swallowing her giggles. She placed both of her hands criss-cross over Ron's mouth. "Shhhh!" she scolded. "You'll wake the whole mansion!"

Ron pried her hands away. He held onto them as he put his arms around her, so that her wrists were pinned behind her back. She was now defenseless, lying atop him, and she didn't really seem to mind. Not at all.

"I think you screaming your head off already took care of that," Ron teased. Hermione opened her mouth to argue, and Ron took advantage of the opportunity by lifting his head from the cool, hard marble and kissing her.

As Hermione sank back with him to floor, Ron forgot to worry about the possibility of someone coming to see what all the noise was about. He forgot to worry about the next mission, or the one after that. He forgot all about the war, the Death Eaters, and Voldemort.

For now, it was just him and Hermione, and everything was wonderful.

**VV**

_FIN_

**VV**

_A special thanks to everyone who reviewed! You guys make it all worthwhile :)_

_sil_


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